Gradients
by JacAlley
Summary: Punk accidentally invites a concussed Dolph to Chicago…and ends up in Phoenix with him instead, setting off an irreversible chain of events. Angst, snark, and Rocky 4 references abound. Dolph/Punk/Cena with shades of all three built-in pairings. Slow build.
1. One

Title: Gradients  
Rating: M  
Pairing: John/Punk, Punk/Dolph, John/Dolph, John/Punk/Dolph (with John/Nikki Bella, Punk/Lita, and will-they-or-won't-they Dolph/AJ)  
Summary: Punk accidentally invites a concussed Dolph to Chicago…and ends up in Phoenix with him instead, setting off an irreversible chain of events. Angst, snark, and Rocky 4 references abound. Dolph/Punk/Cena with shades of all three built-in pairings. Slow build.

Author's Note: Hello all! Just wanted to give a quick explanation of a few things. First of all, this all sort of came to fruition after I read Annalore's "Perfection: A Drabble Collection". I had never really thought to myself hey! I should write Dolph/Punk/Cena or even that I should write WWE fic at all. But I read that, and it was super good, so I looked for more Dolph/Punk/Cena and there was pretty much none and then this just sort of came to be. This is in no way a spinoff or sequel to Perfection, just inspired by it (that being said: go read it. It's flawless).

The events in this story begin on May 9, 2013 - two days after the SmackDown taping where Dolph got his concussion and one day before the WWE revealed what happened. I'm very picky and specific about dates and places and continuity. This entire story is outlined for plot but will continue to follow actual, real life timelines, though on a slight delay. I will bend things where I have to, but otherwise, I like to follow real life as closely as possible with RPF like this.

I'm pretty sure just from things I've read and such that Punk and Dolph are better friends than I make them out to be here, but for my own purposes, they aren't too close in the beginning. John and Punk are as close as I believe them to be in real life – maybe a little more. All the usual players are here (Colt, Kofi, Daniel Bryan, Briley Pierce, etc) and all three guys have some other actual or possible relationship going on throughout a lot of this story. I'm not going to portray anyone (specifically: AJ, NIkki Bella, or Lita) as some cartoonish, unrealistic villain. Also, Amy Schumer is my spirit animal, so expect at least one cameo from her.

I will likely use kayfabe names/real names interchangeably. I apologize in advance for any confusion that may cause, but that's just how I roll. I'm not someone who walks around real life calling Dolph Ziggler Nick Nemeth, and I won't when I'm speaking in these author's notes, but I doubt his colleagues and friends go around calling him that. Punk is a special case because I think everyone calls him that all the time except maybe in the throes of passion, and even then it probably get's used.

Texting and social networking is very important here, especially for Punk and Dolph. Formatting for these is different, though the text responses of the person whose POV a section is in will usually be built into paragraphs (look for colons).

Also, this does not exist in a slash world where everyone is gay. Expect actual identity crises.

Woo. That was a lot. Here's Chapter 1! :) Enjoy!

Chapter Warnings: Language. Brief almost mention of AJ Lee's breasts. Near erotic descriptions of deep-dish pizza. Allusions to vomiting. Lots of twitter messaging. Unbeta'd.

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not know anyone portrayed in this story. The events and conversations portrayed here have never happened (not "likely never happened" – they never happened). I created fictionalized personal lives and conflicts for the people who portray fictional characters within the WWE universe. I don't think anyone portrayed here behaves in this way, interacts in this way, or speaks in this way. If you are uncomfortable with the idea of real person fiction, I suggest you exit NOW. If you have come here by googling your own name, for the love of God, I suggest you exit NOW. If you don't, I apologize for anything you might read here, but you were warned. Please don't sue me; I'm one of the people buying your merchandise. That being said, any intellectual or actual property owned by the WWE and/or any of its affiliates, or any non-affiliated copyright/trademark holder for that matter, which appears here is for entertainment purposes only. I receive no profit from this. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Nick suddenly awoke, his skull throbbing. He suspected it was morning; his phone could confirm that, but he wasn't sure he remembered how to open his eyes. His head felt foggy, the same way it did after starting a nap in daylight and awakening, confused and panicky, after sundown. And – oh, God – was that churning feeling_ his_ stomach? No. It had to be someone else's and he was just having sympathy pain because no one woke up this sick to their stomach. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it: how could you get dizzy lying in bed?

Oh. That was definitely _his_ stomach.

Before he knew it, he was on his feet, hastily stumbling to the bathroom.

Several minutes later, he found himself sitting with his knees pulled into his chest, highly alert (though he still somehow felt drowsy, the way he usually only did after all nighters, as if his body might never acknowledge his previous night's sleep). He propped himself up against the bathtub, leaning his pounding head back to rest against the edge. The cool fiberglass gave him some relief from the fire in his neck.

Fuck Swagger. Fuck concussions. Fuck his life right now.

He got that accidents happened in wrestling: spots were easily botched and mistakes were made. Hell, mistakes happened at least several times in every one of his matches. Mistakes were the greatest source of spontaneity they had. And he got that Jake had a lot on his mind with the upcoming trial and the horrendous racism storyline he was selling – like a champ, in Nick's opinion – but why did he have to be the one to suffer?

Yeah. He knew everyone had to go through their own lot of bad in their lives. But right now, he'd be willing to trade this concussion for a prostate exam _and_ a colonoscopy on the same day.

He forced himself to try and remember arriving in Roanoke on Monday afternoon; that whole part of his memory was still gone. After watching Raw, he had most of his memory back from the event that night, though he still couldn't remember a lot of what had gone on for him when he wasn't on camera. He wondered if what he did remember was some sort of fabrication his mind was creating with the information it had from April, E, and the tapes. Traveling from Roanoke to Raleigh was totally missing, and so was the taping of SmackDown. He hoped watching it tomorrow night would jog his memory, but at this point he was fairly certain it wouldn't. He could remember the day before: waking up nauseous, shaky, and sore at the hotel. He remembered April and E accompanying him to his gate for his rescheduled earlier flight to Phoenix, taking the car service straight from the airport out to see the Suns doctor, and learning he had amnesia (though he'd figured that part out pretty well on his own).

He opened his eyes and groaned at the amount of light pouring into through the window and reflecting off the floor to ceiling white tile. He grabbed hold of the edge of the toilet and hauled himself off the floor, stumbling a bit before catching his balance and squeezing his eyes shut to ride out a less severe wave of nausea. His stomach growled, requesting food for the first time since before his injury. He took a few deep breaths, starting out ragged but eventually evening out. He opened his eyes and found the dizziness disappearing.

His head still pounded as he slowly returned to his room, but it was becoming a little more bearable. He grabbed his phone, discovering it was still mid-morning, and made his way out to the living room and switched on the television, tossing his phone onto the coffee table before he made his way into the kitchen. He threw together plain toast and a glass of juice, returning to the living room to curl in on himself with the throw blanket his mother insisted he take home last time he'd been back in Cleveland, and settled in to watch Sports Center.

Halfway through his first slice, his phone lit up, April's name and face (bespectacled and pulled into one of her many goofy expressions, a shot she had taken after stealing his phone away in some rest stop in the middle of no where) splashed across the display.

He accepted the call, pulling his blanket closer. "Hey, Ape."

"How are you feeling?"

"Hm…like I got kicked in the head by a 260 pound professional wrestler."

"Really? That's a little extreme. He's definitely only 240."

He laughed. "I'm okay. I'm less dazed than I was yesterday, but I'm still a little foggy. Nothing a day of bad television can't fix."

"Are you eating?"

"As we speak." He crunched into the crust of his toast to emphasize his point.

"Good. I was just…you know, worried. Have to make sure my boyfriend is back in fighting shape by the pay-per-view!" April joked.

Nick felt his stomach roll again, not with nausea, but with the same weird feeling he'd been getting whenever April used their storyline to joke around with him for the past several weeks. Ever since he'd taken the title the night after Wrestlemania…well, he wasn't sure what was going on. But people kept asking if they'd actually started to date – which they hadn't – and he was starting to think maybe they should.

Maybe. Possibly. He really wasn't sure where take that idea, so he just kept it to himself.

"Oh, let's be honest: I'm still better than everyone else there with this concussion. I mean really? A boot to the skull? Way to be jelly, Swags."

April laughed and Nick couldn't suppress the smile her normal, non-crazy, unforced laugh brought to his face. "No, but really, Nick. Jake feels terrible about it. He wanted to call you, but he didn't know if you were mad at him."

"Of course I'm not mad. Accidents happen. I wish it had happened to someone else, but I guess it was my turn, you know?"

Nick could envision her nodding in understanding: peering down at the floor, pursing her lips before forcing the tip of her tongue through to wet them to way she always did. The way her black hair rested on the slope of her shoulder, her nod causing the locks to separate: half of it sliding to hang down her back, just reaching her waist, and the other half hanging over her chest, grazing... "Yeah, it just sucks that it's now and not when you were still waiting on the title."

"They aren't going to strip me or anything. Fan girls across the nation would swarm Titan Tower in a sea of peroxide blonde wigs and teal shirts."

"You mean E and I would swarm Titan Tower!"

"Awe, way to be loyal."

"Only for my boyfriend!"

Nick laughed. _Jesus Christ. _"I'm gonna go and finish my breakfast that you so rudely interrupted with your genuine care and concern, okay? I'll call you later."

"Don't worry about it, you need to rest."

"I'll call you April. Bye."

"Byes!"

He crunched through his second slice of toast (God, carbs were amazing) and sipped at his juice before deciding to check twitter.

* * *

_Pop._

Punk groaned as he unbent his stiff knee. While it was nowhere near as bad as it had been before, he really did need this time to recuperate, and it was helping. But running five miles yesterday afternoon, followed by a 10-hour YouTube/gaming/comic/pizza/texting marathon, and then passing out without icing or anything was probably not the smartest move he had made lately.

Rolling onto his back, he slowly pulled his knee into his chest and stretched for a few minutes. He considered what he had to do that day (a fat lot of nothing) and sighed. Free time was great, as long as he could fill all of it long enough to avoid boredom. There were only so many times he could harass Colt into sitting on the couch being bored with him. But he had done fairly well at keeping busy so far between baseball and hockey and every other sporting event he had attended. Amy would be up over the weekend, and she usually came up with things for them to do in Chicago that Punk hadn't even known existed.

Plus, he had become even more obsessed with his twitter, which was great if you enjoyed being pissed at 95% of the world and in awe of the 5% of amazing that existed out there.

Speaking of which…

Punk relaxed his leg and rolled over, stretching to reach his phone on the nightstand. He scrolled through his mentions and decided it was still far too early and he was still far too sore to start with any of these people. He opened his messages and replied to each. They were all pretty standard – except one.

_Kofi  
_So Swagger popped Ziggler in the head Tuesday night and apparently he's got a really shitty concussion with amnesia or something

Punk grimaced. Amnesia? That seemed a little farfetched: _I think that amnesia might be a slight exaggeration…_

_Kofi  
_Nah, it's what I heard from a lot of the guys. Retrograde amnesia I think? He can't remember Monday or Tuesday but he didn't forget who he is or anything

That actually sounded pretty scary to Punk. There were many reasons or his straight edge choice – most of them moral ones – but the most rational one was the idea of being able to blackout and forget chunks of time. Not knowing about your own life, having other people know more…the thought was pretty scary.

Punk had never been especially close to Nick Nemeth. Sure, they had worked together. They occasionally had some conversations. They were more than acquaintances, but they weren't exactly friends either. Buddies? Was that the appropriate middle ground? Was that even a mature enough term for men in their thirties? Did the label even really matter? They were just coworkers who chatted and hung out with some of the same people. But he'd had his fair share of concussions before (really, in this industry, you were an anomaly if you hadn't) and even though he was sure Nick had too, this kind sounded a little frightening.

Plus, the guy had only just won back the title after a long drought, so that probably made the whole situation suck a little more due to paranoia (especially since the company was so good about writing people out and stripping them of things because of injuries and all that).

He replied to Kofi: _That sounds kind of intense._

Punk opened up his twitter app and searched for Ziggler. They might not be close, but the situation kind of sucked and Punk was man enough to admit he felt bad for him.

_Direct Message to Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler  
_Concussion and amnesia? The universe has it out for you (sincerely though, my condolences)

After pressing send, Punk dragged himself out of bed. He took a few minutes to stretch his lower half before going downstairs and getting himself a shake. On the way back up, he heard his phone start ringing and sped up to grab it before it went to voicemail.

"Ames," he greeted slightly winded.

"Hey! Phil, listen, I have to cancel on coming up…"

"Well, that's great, Amy. Bailing at the last minute. I defrosted a roast," Punk joked.

She laughed. "No, I'm really sorry though. I got called for a last minute USO thing and-"

"And you never turn those down."

"Exactly."

"It's perfectly fine. I'll just sit here, drink a couple cases of Pepsi and I don't know…maybe the inspiration will strike me to start my own comic book."

"Except you can't draw."

Punk nodded. "But I can write!"

"Maybe. In my experience, you just end up doodling on yourself with the pens."

They were trying again. They had been since September. And it was a lot better this time. They weren't getting as pissed at each other as frequently as they used too. It also didn't feel as serious as last time. As if this time around, they were more about mutual respect and companionship than trying to create and sustain burning, fiery passion. Which made sense in a way: how many 80 year-old married couples did you know who were fiery and passionate? (But Punk was only in his 30s and…he just didn't know what he wanted right now.)

"I'll come up once I'm back though. It's not like you're running on any type of schedule right now. How's the knee?"

He rolled his eyes at her comment (she knew him well enough to know that if he protested it was because his schedule was some type of vaguely hashed out Scott Pilgrim reread plan) and resisted the urge to tell her he _did_ in fact have a schedule and that graphic novels were just as important as wrestling. "Poppy."

"Poppy?" her tone betrayed her befuddlement at the description.

"Yeah, when I don't use it, it just goes 'pop!'." Punk even took it a step farther, digging his index finger into the inside of his cheek and creating the noise with a pull.

"Ah. Poppy. Sounds like my neck."

"You do have a very poppy neck. Actually, your neck is more crackly than anything."

"My neck sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies."

Punk smiled. "I'll see you soon, Amy. I love you." He really did.

"Love you too."

"Stay safe."

"I'll try. Call the sitter and check on the dogs for me please."

"Will do."

And then she was gone. Punk was proud though. Last go around, this would have turned into a 30 minute screaming match about breaking promises and not caring enough and just _insecurity_.

He scanned over his home screen and saw he had new twitter notifications.

_Direct Message from Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler  
_Ha thankssss  
How's the knee

_Direct Message to Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler  
_Poppy.

Punk got back in bed and turned on the television. He had a sick fascination with Kathie Lee and Hoda and he was not afraid to admit it. Though he had no use for the rest of the Today show – he was a Good Morning America man, through and through (that Robin Roberts just tugged at his heart strings on a regular basis).

_Direct Message from Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler  
_Your knee = my skull  
Somehow.

Punk could empathize with that. The worst concussion he'd ever had – fuck, almost 10 years ago now – had left him feeling like there was pressurized air between his brain and his skull (plus that hospital bill had been a bitch. He'd been paying it off until he was on the main roster, $5 at a time). Concussions were wile bitches.

_Direct Message to Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler  
_Isn't it just the best feeling

_Direct Message from Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler  
_That  
And also boredom

_Direct Message to Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler  
_Boredom is the best as far as I know. All that free time.

He stretched his knee out some more and considered stepping up his leg days once he was cleared. Strengthened all the surrounding muscles would help…fuck, he was starting to sound like Cena.

_Direct Message from Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler  
_Bc it isn't throwing fake ashes on taker  
Jk  
(Except really)

This was one of the reasons he had always liked Nick in theory: the guy got it. He got how infuriating creative could be. He got how irritating everything could be at this level of wrestling when you no longer had any character or storyline control, but all the power on the mic. He was unapologetically snarky about all of it – and publically too – which spoke to a part of Punk's heart that bled over from his in-ring persona. Really, their in-ring characters were disgustingly similar except for their looks and their preoccupation with them. And they had always been pretty similar outside the ring. Sure, there were huge differences between them too, but who cared about that stuff anyway? Who wanted to be friends with carbon copies of themselves?

_Direct Message to Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler  
_Precisely

* * *

Nick hadn't expected the direct message from Punk – or any acknowledgement of his injury from Punk for that matter. Maybe he would have asked him how he was when they ran into each other a couple of weeks or months from now. He would genuinely care but the conversation would also have started for polite and slightly superficial reasons. Mostly because even though they didn't normally extend those stupid societal niceties to most others, they had always extended them to each other because they were sort of the same and got why being polite was disingenuous.

But the message was welcome. And the building conversation was pretty good too. Especially since they both had a lot in common right now (granted, Punk had input in his current status on the disabled list, but still).

Nick had been worried for a moment; maybe bringing up the whole Wrestlemania storyline was a step too far. He knew that Punk had a hand in the layout of it. And the ash throwing was ingenious – some of the best stuff he had seen in a while. But it wasn't like it changed anyone's expectations for Taker to win again. If anyone had to break the streak, it should have been Punk. At this rate it would be Fandango. But, like he always assumed about Punk, the man was fine to poke fun at himself. So why not poke fun at Nick?

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_I don't get my story  
Am I standing up for immigration?  
But also not?  
Am I jealous about the spit bucket?

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_The spit bucket. It's prettier than either of them.

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_Yeah  
It rivals my face  
Or my abs  
Not sure which is more painted

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_Precisely. That's why I don't let makeup near me with those spray paint cans.

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_No but really  
What does one do with time off  
Idk what that is

He really didn't. He felt like he'd just been going nonstop for…how many years was it now? God, was it almost nine now? That was insane. He'd worked so hard for so often for so long he hadn't even noticed…even if his mom did send a card and tin of cookies every November.

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_Idk man I'm doing pretty good so far. Sporting events seem to help.

Ew. He wasn't doing sporting events in Phoenix. Who even played here? The Suns? The Coyotes? Fucking Diamondbacks?

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_Except I'm in Phoenix  
Cleveland for life

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_So far I've managed to:  
Get up  
Puke  
Make toast  
Sportscenter

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_That's probably good enough for these first couple of days. Don't want to overdo it.

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_Oh I've heard  
Do you know they actually decided to tell me I had amnesia?  
Like I couldn't figure it out when I couldn't remember things.

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_Doc is good like that

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_Wasn't even Doc  
Sent me back home  
Then sent me to the Suns doctor

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_Oh, NBA docs…is Doc not good enough for you? Are you that important, champ?

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_I'm not sure what the idea was  
But I obviously am  
Got to see a "real" sports doctor

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_I guess LeBron didn't get any leg cramps this week

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_Obvs

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_Idk though  
They gave me the all clear for light workouts once the headaches are gone  
But no work for at least 3 weeks

And he was really looking forward to those workouts. He could feel the endorphins now…if only he could just get an hour in on the treadmill maybe his head would – no. He was going to lie here, on this couch, and recuperate properly. No reason he couldn't be back in the ring for Payback even if Extreme Rules was a bust at this point.

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_Could always use my method

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_Which is?

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_Either lose 2% body fat…or gain it. It's your choice.

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_Depends on how good the pizza is in Phoenix.

The pizza here was…all right. There were a lot of transplants in the area, but they tended to do better with New York-style slices. He still hadn't found anything he could cling to and he wouldn't dare go near a chain – that kind of pizza stayed inside you forever.

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_Had better

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_Awe too bad, man. Deep-dish for life.

Nick nearly groaned. Deep-dish pizza sounded…erotic. Stomach churning at the moment, but the theory behind it at the moment was just…_yes_.

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_Oh god  
Don't even right now

Oh…but yes. Right now. Nick thought about it for a second: that thick soft pan crust, the sauce, and the cheese pulling apart as you scooped a slice out. He nearly had to wipe the drool off his phone screen.

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_Dry ice one  
And ship it  
Jk  
(But really)

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_I don't know how well that's going to hold up, man

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_If they can ship steaks from Omaha…

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_Touché

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_I can't anyway;  
2 slices of toast this morning:  
Carb limit for the year

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_Oh fuck that. You're injured, you can eat Crisco from a can if you want

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_As appealing as that sounds  
No  
(terrible influence)

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_I've heard that a million times before.

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_Bc you bring up deep-dish  
When people are trapped in the southwest

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_Well, this is the first time that's the reason, but I imagine it will happen again

_Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk  
_From me  
Bc I'm never going to stop thinking of deep-dish

But really. Deep-dish. Nick was already scrolling through google images looking at photos like they were porn. Pizza. He just wanted pizza.

_Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk  
_Well, I've got a guest room. If it's that much of a problem, come to Chicago and get some.

Well, that wasn't something Nick had expected. Was Punk actually serious? Like, should he take this invitation seriously? Even if he shouldn't, he couldn't travel right now anyway. He couldn't even drive himself for the next few days – he was relying on cabs right now.

He wasn't all that sure how to interpret that message. But, he could maybe politely turn it down and extend a counter invitation and when Punk turned that down he would know it was a joke?

Wasn't like he would end up heartbroken over it.

* * *

_Direct Message from Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler  
_As great as that sounds  
Can't fly  
But you're welcome to come to AZ  
I've got a pool

Oh fuck. Punk was an asshole.

Punk hadn't actually meant to invite Nick to Chicago. He really hadn't. But he'd just sort of typed the message as a joke and then…concussion rationale on Nick's end had missed the joke? Was it even Nick's fault? It was probably Punk's fault.

This was why Nick added "Jk" to everything.

He wasn't really sure how to progress from this point. He could play it off and turn him down. He could point out he had been kidding. But what if Nick really had misunderstood? And wouldn't it be rude to turn him down in that case? Did Punk actually care if he was being rude?

No, not really.

But concussions really were the worst. So if the guy had actually meant his part of the invitation – actually wanted the company – turning him down would probably suck. Concussions fucked with your head, made you do weird shit you normally wouldn't even consider. He really didn't want to be a dick here. He didn't. Maybe he was getting soft at the ripe old age of 34. (Cena would probably tell him it was a sign of needing to be "wifed up" or something ridiculous like that. Because that was Cena. Who would show up on your doorstep unannounced if you had a concussion and bake fucking sugar cookies and "forget" tell you they weren't vegan.)

And, okay, a pool? It might be May, but that wasn't exactly pool time in Chicago. You weren't really safe for pool going until the end of June around here. And of course, when he'd dropped all that money on this house (enough that he'd had to go vomit after the closing at the reality of the sheer _fortune_ he was responsible for) he'd picked a place with no pool. Because apparently he didn't think it was a priority. Sometimes he wondered about his past decisions: who didn't think pools were a priority?

But the next message Punk sent really came down to one thing: wasn't he terrified of boredom right now? Of his time off getting stale? Of not using this down time to his absolute advantage?

_Direct Message to Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler  
_Arizona adventure it is. I'll bring the deep-dish.

* * *

Author's Note: If you google "CM Punk house" you will come up with the place he is currently living. I like to imagine that all those pictures of the way it was when he bought it is the way he kept it just for fun. Because that place is a little hilarious. And yes, it has no pool. If you want to be super creepy and google "Dolph Ziggler house" you can find a satellite image, and he does, in fact, have a pool.

I know this chapter was rampant with American sports and popular culture references. If you didn't catch some of them, let me know, and I can fill you in.

As a general warning, I am one of the worst updaters in the history of fan fiction. Chapter 2 could be up today, tomorrow, or several years from now.

Favorites, alerts, and reviews are much appreciated! Tumblr username is the same as this pen name.


	2. Two

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author's Note: Thank you for all the kind response to this story. I love you all. John is in this chapter; he didn't really have a place in the last one! From here on you should get all three POVs at least once in most chapters. I used to work at Target which is why I chose it. I also apologize that the at signs didn't show up in front of twitter handles in the last chapter. They were there in DocManager - hope no one found their omission too confusing. Friendly reminder that this story was inspired by Annalore's "Perfection: A Drabble Collection". Go read it (and really, all of her stories) if you haven't already. And a big thank you to Annalore for being the first reviewer of this story!

Chapter Warnings: Language. Whiny grown men with bruised Achilles' tendons. My secret love for the Bella Twins. Two injured men – one with a "poppy" knee and one with a concussion – attempting to grocery shop before Target closes for the night. Way too many mentions of Punk's penis in a totally general manner. Everyone needs to eat a good meal, level off their blood sugar, get a good night's sleep, and heal up a little more before interacting again. Everyone is sassy (and slightly mean) to each other near the end.

* * *

John flipped on the television, toed off his sneakers, and collapsed into bed all in one motion. Straightening his leg he stretched his ankle: extension – flexion. _Fuck_. His ankle wasn't that bad anymore, but he'd been on it all day, his heel nestled in his comfy sneaker with the heel lift he'd been wearing for two and a half weeks. As protected as it had been all day, everything felt stiff now. He knew he was close – _so close_ – to being past this. He was pretty much in the clear now, but he was just really hoping nothing would happen. The thought was stressful and exhausting because things could still go terribly wrong at any time.

He just had to stop thinking that way. He had to stop psyching himself out like this, or he was going to really mess up.

Weeks like this, where he didn't get to go home, were also exhausting. He'd be flying out to the Friday house show in the morning, meaning he wouldn't get another break until after Raw, when he'd go home until Friday morning. After that, he had another 12-day stretch on the road, just like this one. Just like he did every other week.

He'd spent the last three days bouncing around the south for promotional appearances, the previous four days splitting time between wrestling and appearances, and he was about to do it again. He just had to make it through these next few days and he'd be home free – literally.

Home to laze about and ice his ankle and maybe get Nikki to come down if he could convince her to ditch the cameras long enough (not that he disliked the idea of Total Divas – it was great – it was just taking up all of Nik's free time and he hated it). It shouldn't be that difficult; usually all it took was asking Bryan to whisk Brie off for the week and Nik was all his. But he was still waiting for the week he would arrive at the airport to pick her up with a full camera crew in tow.

He couldn't wait until filming was over.

He zoned out, focusing on the television for a few minutes before realizing that he was watching that day's stock market news and started flipping through the channels. It really didn't help that _Troy_ was on one of the movie channels and it just got him back in his head about his ankle and it was frustrating and anxiety inducing and _fuck why do we need ankles in the first place?_

He fished his phone out of his pocket, craving simulated human interaction for distraction.

_Nik  
_Miss you babe xoxo

The message cracked away at a layer of his worry and brought a smile to his face. He sent her a kissy face and went about answering messages from his family.

_Nik  
_I'd FaceTime you but…cameras :( and Brie

He laughed: _What else is new_

_Nik  
_Cameras or B? ;)

_Both. Brie probably says the same about you tho…_

_Nik  
_Ew, let's stop talking about my sister she just used her finger to give herself a pig nose and she's gross. She thinks she's cute, but she isn't!  
_Nik (2)  
_What's up? How's your ankle?

_Tv. It's sore._

_Nik  
_Babyyy :'(

_It'll be fine. Kiss it better?_

_Nik  
_Mwah!

Nikki was sincerely one of the sweetest, most caring, and most genuine people John had ever had the pleasure of meeting. She could put a positive spin on everything. She was content with her life. She cared for people. She loved her family, valued it above everything else. She was kind of perfect for John. And safe. Comfortable. It was a good fit.

It also helped that she was adorable one minute, and fine as hell the next.

His phone vibrated with another text.

_Punk  
_Here's to day 293,523 of the fan girl/McMahon prayer circle that your poor, delicate, Disney princess ankle doesn't give out under you!

John barked a note of laughter so loud it embarrassed him, despite being alone in his room. Sometimes he wondered if he and Punk had spent so much time together between riding around, flying around, joking around, laying around, sitting around, and eating around the perimeters of pans of brownies brought to them by 70 year old fans at signings so they could eat all the edges first that they had just done one of those Star Trek mind melds or something and they could tap in whenever they pleased.

The fact that he even knew that Star Trek had something called a mind meld was proof enough Punk was firmly embedded in his best friend spot.

Since they'd become friends, John had immediately found it easy to complain and worry to Punk. It was mostly because Punk never put up with that shit: he would put you in your place and tell it like it was. Because despite spending long days in the cancer wards at children's hospitals, even John needed to get some outside perspective that his life was amazing and he needed to suck it up. But at the same time, under all the snark and the tell offs and the jokes from his friend, Punk still managed to get it. He might sigh and roll his eyes when John got worked up about something, but the guy still managed to tell him everything would work out the way it was supposed (even if that part came after being really fucking mean to John). He got it. He really did. And their friendship thrived on John's ability to worry and Punk's ability to empathize.

_Disney princess? Nah my ankles are like…knots on a 1000 y.o. sequoia or something_

_Punk  
_I think you give yourself far too much credit…also I'm not sure about the validity of that analogy…I'll let this one slide  
_Punk (2)  
_I think I could feel you biting your nails off my entire flight. The universe doesn't just decide to snap your ankle because you play it up on tv. Karma doesn't work that way (but of course you have no clue how karma works, since you've never done anything wrong in your life)

John ignored the latter part of that text, though he appreciated Punk's 56th reassurance – that day alone – that the universe wouldn't spite him for using his soreness to his advantage: _Flight? Where are you?_

_Punk  
_Of course that's all you got out of that  
_Punk (2)  
_Phoenix

John frowned. As far as he knew, Punk had no upcoming appearances – he was totally off from work, promotional appearances included. And he was pretty sure he didn't know anyone in Phoenix…but John did. John knew one – or two people, if you counted her twin – person in Phoenix.

And for a split second, he panicked.

_You fucking my girl?_

_Punk  
_…really John?

Fuck. John felt silly immediately. Because, first, it was obviously the stupidest conclusion he could have drawn, and second, Punk was never going to let him live that one down (and also, third, he was no longer the kind of man who could handle having seeds of doubt planted in his head. Not after his "terrible, no good, very bad year" as Punk liked to call it. But man, was he good at self-planting them. And once they were there, they often germinated into thousand-year-old sequoias all by their lonesome).

He wondered why he would ever draw this conclusion about two of the people he loved. Especially since he knew they both loved – or at least in Punk's case, liked, since Punk only loved himself, Pepsi, and Cobra Commander – him pretty unconditionally. Which lead him to overanalyze the entire situation for several minutes before coming back to how his shitty choices must be the reason he had hurt his ankle in the first place. And then he just stopped analyzing it all together and hated himself for a few minutes.

_Punk (2)  
_I'm trying to decide if that says more about your opinion of her or me…

_I think it says more about my self-opinion but._

_Punk  
_Please. You think you're the best thing since sliced bread, Johnny.

_Do not_

_Punk  
_Do too.  
_Punk (2)  
_AND apparently you think I'd be attracted to Nicole…have we met before or?

_Watch yourself._

_Punk  
_I'm not saying anything about her. That's a reflection of my own preferences. She's perfectly nice and visually pleasing.

_You should keep watching yourself._

_Punk  
_Ugh. You are never happy.

_That's an actual lie_

_Punk  
_It is. I'm a liar. You're always happy. You should do anti-depressant commercials. Can they get ones that are fruity pebble flavored? Maybe specifically marketed to kids? Maybe they should just put the anti-depressants IN the fruity pebbles!

_I actually had to decide if you were being sarcastic or not for a second there, I totally wasn't catching on what with that clever cereal reference_

_Punk  
_Oh my. Cena's getting sassy!

He was getting sassy. And slightly irritated in the way he did whenever Punk was mean to him when he was in a self-loathing kind of mood. So he was just going to change the subject before he started to pout, stopped answering Punk, and actually watched _Troy_.

_ANWAY. Why are you in Phoenix?_

_Punk  
_Well don't think I'm about to forget this horrible assumption you just made about me and your "girl"  
_Punk (2)  
_Also don't think I'm going to forget what this says about your self-confidence at the moment  
_Punk (3)  
_But…it's a pretty long story.

* * *

_Ding dong._

Nick startled awake. The room was nearly dark – just lit by the last smudges of sun through the curtains and the glow of the television. He sat up slowly, feeling groggy and hungry. His head ached, but it was finally dissipating in a way that made him imagine that if he managed to get in one good meal in the next few hours, he might finally feel better.

Like pizza. A really good pizza.

Punk would have pizza. And Punk was coming here. With pizza. Or some facsimile of it (were they making the Willy Wonka "entire meal in a stick of gum" stuff yet?). He vaguely remembered reading a text when he was still half-awake and listening to Hardball with Chris Matthews hours before about not being allowed through security with the slices he'd brought. He promised to hunt for some in O'Hare that he could take through frozen or at least sealed enough to get it on the plane. He remembered setting his phone aside hoping that Punk wouldn't get arrested for any stunt he was about to pull. Because Nick needed pizza.

And then there was incessant knocking at the door and he really needed to get out of this too hot blanket cocoon and answer it.

He dragged himself off the couch and made his way to the door, opening it to find Punk, duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. "About time. I was sort of assuming I was going to have to break the door down and call you an ambulance." Punk looked him up and down. "You look like shit."

Nick was only half offended. "I was asleep."

"That doesn't explain why your hair looks like a packet of ramen." Punk allowed himself in past a grimacing Nick – who patted at his hair in an attempt to do…something with it – and sat his bag down near the couch. "So it turns out it is heavily frowned upon to try and bribe a TSA agent with their own pizza in order to bring a pizza on a flight." Punk toed his shoes off and plopped down onto the couch.

"Well, fuck." Nick watched as he kicked his right leg onto the coffee table before slowly straightening his left one out and crossing them at the ankles. Nick tried not to grimace at Punk's discomfort as he sat in the recliner across from him. "Way to make yourself at home."

"Hey, I'm a guest here. I can do as I please, that's textbook guest logic, host etiquette, whatever." Punk smiled at him and Nick decided to let him have that one. That coffee table was only from IKEA anyway.

"So what's happening with my promised pizza? Because that's pretty much your room and board for this trip."

"So I don't actually have any _with_ me," Punk started, "but it's no reason to kick me out. My sister said she was going to go intimidate some shops into giving her their recipes…and my sister is pretty terrifying when she wants to be. And someone always owes her a favor so they will probably cave. And she owes _me_ a favor, so she has even more incentive to come through."

"And I will have pizza?"

"You're pretty single-minded, dude. You should just appreciate the _me_. In your living room."

Nick ignored him in favor of his pizza-filled thoughts. "I can silently appreciate the fact that you are wasting a sibling favor on me. Thanks."

"All right, that's fair enough." Punk squinted at the television before reaching over to turn on the lamp and muttering something about Nick's living room being "dark like the fucking Bat Cave". He considered something for several moments before turning back to Nick. "Let's make something because I'm pretty sure even if she get's the recipe now the dough has to rise for like…3 hours or something."

Nick groaned. "I've got an empty egg carton and a loaf of rye bread that I had to thaw yesterday so I could eat it today. So unless you know about some great Styrofoam sandwich…" Nick snorted at the face Punk pulled.

"No wonder you're ravenous."

"Yeah, I wasn't exactly hungry earlier – what with the spinning head and vomiting – and then you mentioned that fucking pizza and I've just been starving ever since. So this is all your fault, and you really do owe me for my troubles."

"God, you do not take concussions well at all, do you?"

Nick shook his head. "Apparently not. Never got one from getting kicked in the head before though. That may be a slight contributing factor."

"All right," Punk stood up and cracked his neck. "Get a shirt on and we'll go to the store. I can drive your sorry ass."

"Sounds planned." Nick made his way upstairs – a little quicker now than he'd been that morning – and managed to make himself look as decent as he could in five minutes (which was pretty fucking decent, he was Dolph Ziggler after all).

Once back in the living room, he had to dig through his bags, still laying packed near where Punk had thrown his, to find his car keys and wallet. He really wondered how he'd ever gotten past the front steps the previous morning.

Or home at all.

* * *

That was how, roughly thirty minutes later, Punk found himself pushing a cart – with Nick in the basket – through Target.

The drive over had been a whiny mess. Despite Punk's suggestions that they stop at (very literally) every restaurant they passed on the way to the store, Nick had vetoed each and every one with varying versions of "gross" and grumbles about Phoenix and it's shitty pizza. But the second they'd walked into Target, he'd made a beeline for the café and ordered one of those flatbread sandwiches they made.

Punk was just thankful this Target didn't have a Pizza Hut because he was pretty sure Nick would have cried if they did and showed his thanks by buying $10 worth of cookies. That was totally why. Not just because he loved those Monster cookies with the M&Ms in them.

As Nick's blood sugar leveled off, he finally became a much more agreeable person to be around. He'd eventually complained that his headache was back, and when Punk told him to suck it up, he'd taken a rather unorthodox but impressively proactive route, climbing over the side of the cart and sitting cross-legged in the basket. Punk had complained, in jest, about feeling like a manny, but Nick had thrown an orange at him and he'd let the whole thing go.

The guy had a concussion after all.

They were halfway down the prepackaged meal aisle when Punk's phone rang, John's name lighting up the screen. Punk gave Nick a feigned look of annoyance, getting a laugh out of him, before answering.

"Yes, _dear_?"

"I was trying to figure out if maybe 'long story' was a metaphor for something. And the only thing I could come up with it being a metaphor for was your penis. And let me tell you, that metaphor isn't really clever and it's not accurate either."

"Why are you talking about my penis?"

Punk rolled his eyes as Nick gave the glaring scrubs-clad lady on the opposite side of the aisle with two young kids in her cart his smarmy Dolph-smile. "These men!" he reasoned with her, "They just…they don't ever think about other people do they? Gosh! We'd be better off without them!"

The woman tutted, grabbed a box of shells and cheddar, and headed past them, making sure to side eye Punk on her way.

Punk stage-smacked Nick upside his concussed head (for the kids' benefit, really, they both had looks of absolute awe on their faces…though it was probably because they'd never seen a grown man bent in on themselves the way Nick was in that cart) before focusing on John's words: "Because I knew depending on who you were with, you may or may not say penis out loud. Because I'm clever like that."

"Touché."

"I'm thinking it's no one important."

"Just Nick."

"…I thought you weren't with her." John sounded breathless and Punk was going to have to buy a bulk supply of paper bags for the guy if he was going to keep panicking like this.

"No. Ziggler" Nick gave him a weird look at the mention of his name as they turned at the end of the aisle before he nearly launched himself out of the cart reaching over to pull open one of the freezer cases and grab a box of Uncrustables. "And also, I would say penis in front of anyone. I once said it in front of my grandmother. And I was not young by any stretch of the imagination." It had actually happened just that Christmas.

"…I'm actually more confused now than I was up to this point. You're really doing a good job throwing me off your trail if you are with Nikki." Punk was relieved that John seemed to be joking again.

"I like to keep you guessing, John. Keeps things fresh."

"What are you doing with him?"

"You know, you're like a naggy girlfriend, and I've already got a girlfriend, who _isn't_ naggy, so I don't need this when I have cookies I could be eating." Punk snapped a hard edge off one of his cookies and nibbled into it.

"I am not naggy."

"And when she calls about my dick, it's usually a better phone call than this."

"I can almost guarantee Amy has never called you just to talk about your penis."

"You don't know her as well as you think."

"Can you quit changing the subject?"

"I can't remember, was the actual subject of this conversation my penis or you being my naggy pseudo-girlfriend?"

"Actually, I think that's all just one big metaphor still; I'm pretty sure it was Dolph Ziggler. I don't even know how he became the topic of this conversation, but he did."

"Because I'm pushing him through Target in a shopping cart."

"The fu…"

"Can you not tell the world my business?" Nick interrupted as he bit into a totally frozen Uncrustable, miraculously not snapping a single tooth.

Punk pulled the phone away from his ear. "That's _actually_ disgusting. And I've eaten a still-frozen tv dinner before." That had happened this past Christmas as well.

Nick reached out. "Give me the phone."

Punk handed it over.

"Hey Cena! How's it going not having me around to steal your thunder? People actually remember you exist or…?"

Punk laughed and went about looking through pancake mixes for the one he would need to put the least effort into.

"Aw, you know. All concussed and what not…Yeah, I don't plan on messing around or anything…Yeah. Well, ice that shit or something, I don't know what to tell you….Mhm….Yeah, all three of us injured at once, it's weird…Well, I've actually invited him for pretty nefarious purposes. He thinks I'm going to take him to a sweat lodge, but it's really just a shallow grave I've dug for him out in the desert. This concussion is just a set up; I'm totally fine!…Oh, what's that? Yeah I'll be sure to tell him that when I bury him!…Mhm, right, 'leave me your penis in your will'…got it."

Nick smirked as he handed the phone back to Punk, and even with it away from his ear, Punk could clearly hear John whining: "That wasn't what I said, Ziggler. Go fuck yourself!"

Punk fake-groaned at John. "See, now _he's_ obsessed with my penis. You've birthed an out of control monster. It's the next Cloverfield. JJ Abrams is going to make a movie about my penis. I'm thinking it could just be called "Best In The World"; we don't even need innuendo."

"Shut the fuck up."

Punk felt bad for approximately a half nanosecond at the actual frustration in John's voice. "What's your deal?"

"Nothing. I'm just…not in the mood to joke around."

"You and I were _just_ joking around."

"That's different. I actually know you. And like you."

"Whatever. Go put on Top Gear or something and call Nikki. Your ankle isn't that bad; I heard him tell you to ice it. Stop complaining about it and you won't be so sore over it. And I don't mean physically sore, I mean 'Wahhh! I'm John Cena and my ankle twinges!' sore."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Would if I could. Take two and call me in the morning."

"Whatever. Bye."

After John hung up, Punk waited a full minute before texting him: _Don't worry. It's all going to be fine._

* * *

Nick saw Punk's phone light up in the seat of the cart before it even rang, and when Punk was talking with Cena, he tried to tune it out.

First of all, they were weird. Who called their best bro and immediately started talking – in a supermarket with children, mind you – about penises? Sure, Nick talked about his dick a nice portion of the time, but there was usually some build up before these conversations occurred. He didn't just get E's dick on his mind and call him up about it.

And second of all, he felt like he was intruding on something. Because Punk and Cena were best friends and Nick wasn't even really Punk's friend at all. (But here the guy was, pushing him in a buggy through Target.) And it was weird to witness a moment like that because Nick had never exactly been privy to a real life conversation of theirs.

But they were fucking _weird_.

Nick listened to Punk's explanation of _which _"Nick" he was with, knowing that John's confusion was likely mixed with a healthy portion of judgmental "_why_ would you do that?" It's not that they didn't get along; they just hadn't exactly had the chance. They'd feuded over April for what felt like 16 seconds but it had been at that busy holiday time of year when everyone just wanted to go home and be with with there families, and then that was over.

And plus John was dating Nikki. And Nick wasn't the kind of guy to hold his ex-girlfriends against their new boyfriends when he was around the guy, but it was still kind of weird to start bro-ing it up with the man who was fucking someone you had been fucking before.

The entire thing just felt off and weird to Nick. And he was kind of pissed under the surface that John would be judging why Punk was hanging out with him, and he kind of wanted to stand up for Punk (and also, himself). But then again, John had every right to question why his best friend was hanging out with someone he had never hung out with before. It wasn't like they had gone to Denny's after a taping – the guy had come to his house after giving the decision about fifteen seconds of thought.

Nick had taken the phone with half a mind to tell Cena off (mostly because of his irritating headache), but he was going to extend courtesy to the guy and try to keep it all comfortable for everyone involved. Because that's the kind of person he was. Most of the time.

"Hey Cena! How's it going not having me around to steal your thunder? People actually remember you exist or…?"

John laughed, though Nick was pretty sure it would qualify as stiff. "Yeah, they finally remembered me. How are you feeling?"

"Aw, you know. All concussed and what not."

"Yeah. I heard. Pretty shitty luck, they always suck. I can't even imagine, right after getting the title and all. I wouldn't mess around or anything…."

Nick tried not to frown. What he wanted to ask was, "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Did John think he was some idiot who didn't know how to handle a concussion? And was it just him or did John seem to mean something else? Or was he just paranoid? But no, why would he even be paranoid? Just because this was John Cena and he could get him fired and cast out forever.

Maybe that was an exaggeration.

Nick tried to take most of the backstage gossip with a grain of salt. But he also always listened and filed them away for further analyzing. This was a business run on nepotism and dirty looks. In this case, Cena was the Alec of the WWE Baldwin family, and he had more pull than most of the people working at corporate. Just ask Mickie James. He wasn't going to mess with _anything_ if John Cena warned him not to because that warning could hold more insider knowledge than Nick would ever even hope to have.

Except maybe he would mess with John Cena. Just a little. Harmlessly. For fun. Only to rile him up more than anything. He shot Punk a look and found him tirelessly pouring over pancake mix boxes. Was he still a vegan or something? He had been one, right? Nick was pretty sure he couldn't refrain from eating steak though, so he hoped the Chicagoan didn't take too much offense if he did it in front of him. Like when they got home from shopping. In the next half an hour.

"Yeah man, I don't plan on messing around or anything."

Nick could almost imagine Cena nodding (Nick tried not to think that it was a condescending nod) on the other end. "Good, good. Don't need to end up making it worse. Trust me, I'm going through the same thing right now. Doc tells me to rest my ankle, so I go visit hospitals for 13 straight hours. It's a great plan on my part, really."

"Yeah. Well, ice that shit or something, I don't know what to tell you…." And he really didn't. Cena easily could have taken time off. He had the right more than anyone because the guy did shit Nick didn't even know about for this company when the rest of them went home two days a week. Sure, they were playing the entire thing up on television, but no one would question him if he took a few days off just to rest.

But it was hard right now, and Nick knew it. With Punk gone (and even with Nick gone, though it wasn't as big of an impact) the roster was so middle heavy. It especially sucked that when John had the title, it was always twice as hard to have him believably defend it against anyone, especially someone new to seriously feuding with Cena. Reeves had his work cut out for him and Nick still wasn't sure it was going to work out in the end. Cena had Extreme Rules on his shoulders, and that really must suck.

But Nick could still begrudge him that kind of pressure.

"Yeah. I just keep doing that, anti-inflammatories, the works."

"Mhm…." Nick wished he cared more. He did – he just didn't. Hard heads got bashed in eventually. It just took something a lot tougher and more permanent to do it.

"It's crazy that Punk is out too."

Nick agreed. "Yeah, all three of us injured at once, it's weird."

"That's the universe man. Don't let him get up to too much trouble. He has a way of finding it and then you end up waking up hung over with videos of strippers eating with you at McDonalds on your phone, and he's laughing his sober ass off because you can't remember what happened. Keep him on the straight and narrow."

Nick narrowed his gaze. What was he going to do, pump Punk full of black tar heroin? "Well, I've actually invited him for pretty nefarious purposes. He thinks I'm going to take him to a sweat lodge, but it's really just a shallow grave I've dug for him out in the desert. This concussion is just a set up; I'm totally fine!"

Cena laughed. Cena laughed hard. Nick was torn between pride and wanting to tell him to stop because he was mocking his worry that _he_ would get the man John just admitted brought a drunk John and strippers to a McDonalds in the middle of the night into trouble. "I could imagine that."

And that was the straw that broke a very tired, very hungry, very concussed camel's back. Cena could seriously imagine him burying Punk _alive in the desert? Really? Fuck that_. "Oh, what's that? Yeah I'll be sure to tell him that when I bury him!"

"Um…what?" John chuckled awkwardly.

Nick looked up at Punk who was giving him a quizzical look and smirked. "Mhm, right, 'leave me your penis in your will'…got it." It wasn't some scathing remark. But he wasn't risking his career right now; he was fed enough from his flatbread to keep himself from doing that kind of damage.

As Punk took the phone, Nick clearly heard John say something that sounded suspiciously like, "That wasn't what I said, Ziggler. Go fuck yourself!" God was he a whiny bitch.

Punk started talking to Cena again, exasperation clear in his voice. Nick didn't listen for specifics, closing his eyes and rubbing at the bridge of his nose, but Punk was definitely a little agitated with the WWE Champion. When Punk hung up he frowned, and once he set his phone down again, Nick asked: "So what's this about your penis?"

* * *

AN: Used shopping cart and then buggy for Dolph because Cleveland technically falls into that Pittsburgese region (I'm in a branch of linguistics, can you tell?).

I mentioned Mickie James being a casualty of John's affluence for a reason. I'm not confirming nor denying its validity in the universe this story takes place in yet, and mentioning it in the way I did was solely Dolph's conclusions based on the rumors he had to work with. So that's what Dolph believes, but there's more to all of that within this.

Feedback is always appreciated.

And if I haven't posted another chapter by Sunday night, let's all cross our fingers that Punk actually shows up at Payback, yeah?


	3. Three

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author's Note: Thank you again for all the kind feedback so far. I really do appreciate it! Go read Annalore's Perfection: A Drabble Collection, which inspired this story. Trust me. Payback was sort of epic. Dolph losing will eventually be featured in here and all that, and actually had me as uncomfortable as they meant for us to be, so big ups to everyone involved in that. John was John, but I really appreciated almost everything he did because the entire match was entertaining (+10 life points for jumping into that big pile of dudes – you made all my dreams come true). Punk's return was majestic. And then Raw took it to the next level. Can't wait for Dolph to be all over that shit.

Also, I've tried to make sure that the at signs came through in the twitter segments this time, but I fear that is not going to happen. Hopefully I've done enough to make it obvious there are twitter segments without it! I'm also not sure what's going to happen to hashtags here, but if the number sign doesn't show up, you should be able to tell where there are because the words will have no spaces in phrasing.

Big thanks to Annalore for another amazing review (and for starting a great new Punk/John story that you should all go read, The Winding Road). SparksFlyOut: You are amazing. Your reviews on this and Care brought me joy and I'm so appreciative. You two are super motivational.

Chapter Warnings: Hijinks throughout the greater Phoenix area. The Jodi Arias trial. Dolph's Lana Del Rey obsession. _Deep. Dish. Pizza._ Blink and you miss it Punk wrestling feels. Dolph's 5/13 Raw Tweet-A-Thon. John starts to feel better – Punk appreciates this. Unbeta'd.

* * *

Nick had to admit that the past four days with Punk had been pretty awesome.

After getting home Thursday night and eating again, he'd got Punk set up in the guest room and passed out for ten hours. He woke up without a headache, without dizziness, and without nausea.

Nick believed it was a sign that the weekend would be a good one. And it was.

After giving a quick statement (and launching into an impromptu kitchen comedy routine about "classic Swags" moments while Punk made the pancakes he'd bought on their shopping trip), they'd settled onto the couch for the laziest day in Nick's recent memory.

They'd got in a bit of Sports Center, during which Punk went on and on about the Cubs and the Blackhawks. It eventually got to the point where Nick had to switch it over to the hours worth of Jodi Arias verdict coverage he'd managed to DVR for himself several days prior just to shut Punk up. Having had aspirations to be a lawyer if the whole wrestling thing didn't work out, Nick found himself following nearly every big case: Casey Anthony, George Zimmerman…hell he knew every line in every episode of _Night Court_ if was he was being serious with himself. The courtroom was just like the ring, if a little less tan and jacked.

However, introducing Punk to the trial – and filling in the blanks for him where the likes of Nancy Grace failed to – had proven to be a questionable idea. Punk got emotionally invested during the first hour, and spent the next couple hours so obsessed he'd even taken notes on his phone to piece together his own version of the events. Eventually, Nick spoiled the verdict for him and Punk lost it, causing Nick to have to throw together their lunch while Punk poured through conspiracy theories and asked Nick the likelihood of each and every one.

When Nick refused to give his own opinion – and he still wouldn't, no matter how many times Punk threw balled up napkins at him – Punk became overzealous.

"I'm cutting you off. You can't watch HLN at all in this house, Punk."

"But she still has sentencing! Do you think they'll execute her? I mean, seriously? In this day and age we still execute people…how do you feel about execution? I feel like you're totally against it. You had MSNBC on when I got here; you're totally a bleeding heart commie liberal."

"We aren't talking about that either!" he'd laughed while he cut the crusts off his sandwich.

"Oh, come on! Why the fuck not?" Punk noisily crunched into a celery stalk and stared him down.

Nick snorted. He wasn't intimidated in the least. "Haven't you ever heard that it's impolite to talk about religion and politics in casual company?"

"I don't believe in either of those things so I don't see the point. Besides, this is about murdering people! Eye for an eye shit. What's your opinion on _that_?"

Which eventually dissolved into a full on philosophical debate which lead them to discuss 18th century wigs, the founding fathers, the city of Philadelphia, and the Flyers, a topic which took Punk right back to rambling on and on about the Blackhawks' cup chances. They'd switched back to ESPN at that point just so Nick would have something logical to listen to, rather than Punk's impassioned Arias opinions.

It was an absolute shit show, if Nick was being honest. But it was the most entertaining six hours of his _life_ – and he'd spent a spring break in Cancun with MTV. But he could barely remember any of that. This had been so simple, so _stupid_ if he was being perfectly honest. But now he would forever associate Jodi Arias with Punk.

It was just when they decided they needed to figure out whether to order in or go out for dinner that he got the message.

_April  
_I totally just saw this on tumblr…

Attached was a picture of Nick sitting in the basket of a Target shopping cart, gnawing away at a frozen Uncrustable and cradling a bunch of bananas in his lap, while Punk, phone to his ear, pushed him around.

Nick had laughed for a solid minute before finally giving in to Punk's cries of "what's so funny?" and showing him the picture. Punk burst into hysterics, and Nick joined back in, clutching his sides and hoping he was getting enough oxygen to his brain to avoid aggravating his injury. "Do we seriously look like that? I look like your misbehaving toddler!"

"That pretty much," Punk had to stop midsentence to gasp for air, "sums up how you acted last night."

When they'd calmed down enough to breathe, Nick explained the situation to April and they'd both checked twitter (which they'd both managed to neglect the entire day while squawking at each other), seeing that #PunkAndDolphTakeTarget had been trending that morning.

And then Nick got the notification:

_ CM Punk  
_ HEELZiggler I thought you were a bag of clementines #orangemuch

Nick had thrown his phone at him. They agreed to order Thai for dinner.

Saturday finally saw Nick get out of the house under Punk's watchful eye. They'd hit Nick's gym in the morning, and though he had to take extra care of what he did and for how long, he had managed to squeeze in a pretty good workout after being sedentary for three days. Once home, Punk had made a beeline to the pool ("My _sweat _is sweating. This place is the surface of the sun. I don't care where Google maps _claims_ we are.") and jumped in fully clothed when they got home. Nick had briefly considered stripping before giving up on that thought and jumping in after him, Under Armour and all.

Their afternoon was lazy, and they eventually dragged themselves out to see _The Great Gatsby_ after lunch and showers. They both agreed it could have been a bit better, but that Lana Del Rey song had got caught in Nick's head – like every Lana Del Rey song tended to – and he'd spent the whole ride home torturing Punk with his sung along falsetto versions of most of the _Born to Die_ album he'd cued up on his phone. (Punk threatened to find this chick and pay her to stop making albums just so Nick couldn't sing along. Nick had laughed and made sure to scream the last chorus of National Anthem just for Punk.)

After waking up well before Punk on Sunday and sneaking in time on the treadmill, Nick decided that Punk could obviously handle him in isolated situations for long periods of time and made plans to take him way out of town. Informing the sweaty, bleary eyed, and sleep-deprived Punk who came down the stairs that he better hurry up because they were going to drive two hours north to visit the Meteor Crater site where astronauts trained may have been better received after the man got his first cup of coffee, but it was met with interest nonetheless.

Except for the desert part. Punk still apparently had qualms with the dry heat around him and so far he'd only been truly happy in air conditioning and the pool. (The man had even complained on the 300-foot walk from the movie theater to the parking lot that he was melting. Nick told him he would be more comfortable without his Gracie Jiu-Jitsu zip-up, but Punk had simply laughed, shot him a smile over the roof of the car, and slid into the driver's seat, starting the engine to blast the air conditioning.)

While Punk had been pretty miserable when they stepped out into heat at the site, briefly resting his complaints in the cool visitor's center and the informational movie theater, though his whines started up again on the walk outside.

But he'd immediately shut up standing at the rim of the crater.

Nick caught the briefest glimpse of Punk's genuinely awestruck expression as he took in the sheer enormity of the crater before Punk had caught himself and righted his features. Nick thought it was easily the truest emotion he'd seen from the Second City Saint, next to his face after his win at Money In the Bank two years before.

Nick let Punk torture him by singing (and playing drums on the steering wheel) along with metal station on satellite radio just because he could.

When they got home in the afternoon, he let Punk try to fry an egg on the sidewalk. Which kind of worked, but mostly pissed off some of his neighbors ("Did you know there's a tattooed man egging your sidewalk?"). It worked after an hour of direct sunlight and Punk was so pleased he'd tweeted a picture of it with the caption "fried".

Just before sundown, Nick got him back in the car and over to 40th street to see the bats take off for the night out of the flood control tunnel. ("You know, since you think you're Batman. I figured I would bring you to your kind so you could take off in flight with them and be free.")

They'd spent the rest of the night in the pool, drinking virgin pina coladas and talking about the Golden Girls and M. Night Shyamalan movies.

That morning saw them hit the golf course with a couple of Nick's friends who'd called and made the plans when they'd found out he was home. Nick stayed in the cart, hydrated, and out of the sun, jokingly boasting of all his prior professional caddy experience with Kerwin White, while Punk generally sucked but was good about the entire thing and charmed all of Nick's friends into claiming they liked him better than Nick by the end of the outing.

On the way home, Punk's phone lit up in the cup holder with a text from his sister Chaleen. Nick caught the words "recipe" out of the corner of his eye and immediately grabbed the phone while a confused Punk kept his eyes on the road.

"What are you doing?"

"You sister has the recipe. My entire life has lead to this moment…."

Which was how they now found themselves in the kitchen, covered in flour and arguing over toppings.

"If you put the pepperoni on now, it's going to make the entire thing a greasy, runny mess. Why don't we cook the pepperoni separately and wipe it off and put it on for the last few minutes..."

Punk stared at Nick like he was speaking from his eyeballs. "Are you serious? Did you miss the entire _point_ of pepperoni pizza? It's supposed to be a greasy, runny mess! That's why it's delicious!"

Nick raised his eyebrows at Punk. "I'm sorry, up until not too long ago, weren't you a _vegan_? And now you're going to fight me on the merits of adding pepperoni _after_ making the pizza? Are you getting _high_ now too or…?"

"Hey!" Punk pointed at him, face very serious, finger jabbing him in the chest. "That's crossing a line, my friend." Punk threw the sauce jar lid at him, but Nick easily swatted it to the ground, spots of tomato sauce dotting the tile.

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that this is all a bit hypocritical if you ask me."

Punk grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter and chucked it at him. "Do not think for one second I will not beat the shit out of you with a wooden spoon just because you have a concussion."

Nick laughed as he caught the apple one-handed. "Lighten up, I'm kidding." He took a bite out of the McIntosh. "Besides, I'd like to see you even _try_."

Nick's challenge had dissolved into fifteen minutes of laughter and trying to outrun and avoid a CM Punk, armed with several wooden spoons, who got in a few good torso shots when he managed to catch him behind the couch. When the oven finally beeped that it was preheated, they managed to negotiate a shaky armistice and put a plain pizza in to bake – toppings to be added at the consumers desire.

Nick eventually disappeared to his room, locating his laptop and some cables. When he came back downstairs, Punk shot him a questioning look.

"Sometimes I wish I had stayed in Florida; I do not put up with Mountain Time television delays very well. Think if anyone at corporate finds out I've been live streaming shows I'll get fined?"

Punk looked a little shocked and Nick actually thought he was about to get chewed out for not waiting to watch the show live and contribute to ratings when Punk spoke up: "…I totally forgot there was even a show tonight."

Nick was a bit taken aback. It was _Monday_ after all. "Oh…"

"I haven't really watched anything in a few weeks. I've got it on my DVR but…"

Nick understood the look on Punk's face a little better. It wasn't shocked so much as…Nick wasn't sure how to describe it. A little surprise that he'd honestly forgotten Raw was on? Nick was pretty sure there was something else there too, something he couldn't account for: relief.

"Nah man, you've been out long enough to mix days up; it's vacation, there are no Mondays. Plus who wants to think about work when there's hockey to be watched and pizza to be had?" He smiled reassuringly and got back to work plugging his laptop into his television.

They were quiet for a while, Nick getting a live stream set up so they could watch in a few minutes while Punk paced the tile floor, occasionally stopping to peak in through the oven door at the baking pizza. After being satisfied with his set up, Nick collapsed on the couch, grabbing his phone in the process. He tried to focus on work for a few minutes, knowing his twitter presence was a constant on television days.

_ HEELZiggler  
_no ziggs at #RAW ouch WWE  
swags/del rio will surely entertain JK JK  
at least cenas there doing fresh material, i bet ;)

He heard Punk's snort of laughter a second later and shot him a smile over his shoulder. The oven timer sounded, and Nick all but dove over the back of the couch to get back into the kitchen to witness the unveiling of his long-desired meal. The smell hit him the second Punk pulled open the door, and Nick couldn't contain a rather embarrassing moan.

Punk shot him a grossed out look. "Do you two want to be alone, or…?"

"Yes! With a fork and a bottle of coke…"

Punk exaggerated a gasp, grasping his chest. "Coke! How could you betray me like that?"

"I'm sorry! Blame it on my momma, that's all she ever bought."

"Do not blame the lovely Mrs. Ziggler for your sins, Dolphie! that's just rude!"

Nick play-shoved Punk out of the way, and grabbing an oven mitt, he pulled the pan from its hot confines and gingerly sat it on the awaiting trivet. He hovered over it, basking in its glory, his face mere inches from it, pulling in its luscious scent despite the steam stinging at his face. His moment was interrupted when Punk pulled him back. "If you scald your face in my presence, I'm never going to hear the end of how I could have prevented your disfigurement, so if you could keep the creepy to a minimum for just _one_ second…"

Nick swore he had tears in his eyes – and not just from the steam. "It's just so…perfect."

Punk rolled his eyes and shook his head, though Nick caught the fond smile. "Okay, remind me not to be around when you have children."

"Oh no, I will never feel this strongly about my own children. I reserve these intense feelings for orgasmic cuisine and selling bumps."

"Your priorities are so healthy, man." Punk started to go at the pie with a pizza cutter and Nick waited on baited breath. "The bottom is crunching. I think we may have achieved actual success over here."

"First time in my life!" Nick handed Punk a spatula and grabbed them a plate each. Punk dished out slices and they went about garnishing them with the appropriate toppings.

Neither of them used pepperoni.

They dug in as Raw began, and both had to admit, for their first attempt the pizza was okay. Maybe they'd used a bit too much sauce and the bottom was a bit harder than either of them would have liked, but they were rather pleased with the results.

When he was done, Punk wiped at his face and hands, leaning back in his chair. "Well, this was a good try. But, once you're back on the road, we'll get the real stuff at my place on a day off."

Nick confusedly considered this statement for a while before realizing that Punk had pretty much just invited him to come stay in Chicago. He wasn't sure whether he was more shocked or proud that he'd made a good enough impression to get the invite. This man was notoriously good at shutting people out for the littlest of fumbles. Hell, look at his twitter any given day and you could watch him virtually cut out complete strangers.

And then Nick realized the gravity of Punk's words: CM Punk considered him a friend.

On top of that, CM Punk considered him a good enough friend to invite him to Chicago, to invade his privacy, just so they could get a pizza. A pizza that only Nick had ever _really_ wanted. A pizza that got Punk here in the first place, just so Punk could give him that pizza.

God bless deep-dish pizza.

Nick smiled across the counter at his friend. "I think that could be doable."

Punk nodded before turning his attention to a thorough study of the ceiling while worrying his lip ring. Nick couldn't help but beam at him, the last little bits of his apprehension that something would go wrong with this entire situation starting to melt away.

When Nick was done, the pair managed to get everything cleaned up, and they settled in on the couch to watch the show.

"That tweet was good earlier," Punk suddenly proclaimed, eyes earnest. "What else you got?"

Nick shot him a questioning look. "Are you challenging me?"

Punk shook his head. "Just an inquiry."

"It felt like a challenge."

"Nah...not unless you want it to be." The smirk on his face made Nick really want it to be.

"If you're challenging me, just come out and do it. Because I will win."

"It's not exactly like there's going to be a winner or a loser in this…"

"So you admit you're challenging me?"

Punk gave an almost exasperated laugh. "Sure, Nick. If that's what you want me to admit to…."

"You're going to egg me on either way."

"Oh, hell yeah."

"I can't even fathom why you would think I _wasn't_ going to give my tweeting my all, whether you wanted me to or not."

"I'm just trying to see how far you're willing to go."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Punk shrugged. "How many people do you want to piss off?"

Nick wanted to piss everyone in the company off at all times…but it was a slippery slope. Just like it had been when he'd pressed John the other night. Things could be a good, honest laugh for everyone when suddenly, the stupidest little joke, usually the least clever of the bunch, pissed the wrong person off in the worst kind of way. And then people were sent packing.

There was a lot Nick could get away with. But what he could get away with, and what he wanted to get away with were two entirely different things. His earlier tweet had been fine. It was tongue in cheek and just Cena-hating enough (because really, the guy was fair game as long as you didn't accuse him of fucking porn stars) to be in character, but honest at the same time.

Nick's biggest problem was that when he got going…the line between what Dolph was allowed to say and what Nick wanted to say became more and more apparent and he was usually on the wrong side of it. Hence the 45 drafted tweets he'd never sent sitting on his account, some waiting days, weeks, months, years even to get posted, because he just had terrible feelings about them despite their innocence.

But at this point, Nick felt like things were slipping. Only _he _could get a title and a concussion in a little over a month. He wasn't dumb. He wasn't going to hang onto this title very long. He was only supposed to retain at Extreme Rules to get him to Payback and now that entire thing was up in the air. But he knew he wasn't going to have the title for the summer; he could feel it in his bones. Whether or not it was a good or bad thing…he didn't know. And until he knew, he had to take chances. Even if taking them was possibly a crucial misstep.

"I want to piss off everyone."

Punk turned away from the television and stared at him. Nick slowly slid his gaze from Raw to Punk, holding his eye for longer than he thought he was necessary. Punk smirked.

"Go for it."

Nick does. And it takes everything in him to ignore those couple of 203 area code phone calls he really does get.

* * *

The six-man tag team elimination match had gone far smoother than John expected.

Going in, he'd had the worst feeling in the world. He was dreading it. He was so convinced something would go wrong. That he would take one misstep, give out under one guy's weight, land wrong just once. John felt like there was a little countdown clock in the back of his mind, waiting to run out, and his ankle would irreversibly snap, retiring him for good.

But as the show went off air and the clock hit zero…he was fine. His ankle was intact. It didn't even twinge. Back in his locker room, out of his shoes and in the shower, he realized that it wasn't even stiff after a full day for the first time in weeks.

He didn't want to jinx himself but…_he was better_.

The weight off his shoulders took his breath away and left him holding himself up against the shower wall while he recovered from the overwhelming relief. He'd dodged a serious bullet. How many guys left the ring hurting to find out they were done for good? And here he was, absolutely fine, requiring nothing more than a few weeks of taping and icing. He tried not to cry, but was man enough to admit he'd failed.

Now, he just had to make it through Sunday – which was shaping up to be a blood bath if creative had anything to say about it – unscathed.

Out of the shower and dressed again, he looked through his phone. He almost called Nikki, but she was already waiting for him back at the hotel. His thumb lingered over Punk's name in his messages for a while. He hadn't answered since Punk's reassurances that everything would be fine on Thursday night. He'd meant to, but then he'd randomly seen the picture of Punk and Ziggler, and he'd quickly decided that he was going to keep his distance for a few days so he wouldn't blow up or anything. Or so they could _bond_ or whatever.

No. He wasn't going to act like that. Punk was allowed to have other friends; he did for heaven's sake. He was right when he said John was acting like a naggy girlfriend. But during his self-imposed hiatus, John had just come to depend on the sureness of calling or texting Punk whenever he needed and getting an immediate response. He didn't want to call him and have to leave a voicemail that wouldn't be answered for hours because Punk was off having fun with someone who wasn't him.

John groaned. That wasn't exactly true. Sure, he wanted to be off gallivanting with Punk, or any of his friends for that matter. If that wasn't evidence enough that he needed time off, he didn't know what was. But he didn't want to be looking for someone to put his worries on only to get more worried worrying about when they would actually respond.

Maybe now that his ankle was feeling good, that stress would go away. And if the past ten minutes were anything to go by, it would.

He called Punk before he could over think it.

Punk picked up on the second ring. "Oh, _hey_, Johnny. Long time no talk."

John laughed a little embarrassedly. "Yeah, I suck."

"Yes, yes you do."

John could hear the television going in the background. "Are you guys watching Raw?"

"Already did. We're pirates."

"So you saw my pitiful win."

"I did. Took that powerbomb like a champ…or the champ in this case."

"As if I never have."

John heard a rush of air and a door shutting, and then nighttime sounds. "How are you feeling, man?"

_There it was_. "Honestly, Punk? I feel.._good_."

"Good?" He sounded as surprised as John felt.

"Yeah. My ankle feels fine and it's…making me hopeful? I don't really know…"

Punk laughed. "I can't imagine how relieved you must feel, but, seriously? _I'm_ relieved."

John frowned. "Was I really that naggy?"

"Yes. You were the naggiest."

"Well, I didn't _mean _to be."

"But you were, John."

He sighed. "I'm really sorry."

"Don't be."

"I didn't mean to be-"

"John." Punk's voice was hard and stern. "I don't care. You're my friend. I would have cut off my right foot if it made you feel better…. And I'm rather…_attached_ to my right foot."

John burst into laughter. He could nearly hear the smirk in Punk's voice. "You're corny."

"No, that would be you."

"Nah, that's you."

"No, _you_."

"Oh, _Phil_," John giggled in the girliest voice he could muster – which wasn't much, "_You hang up first_!"

"Shut up, John boy."

"How's…Ziggler?" John asked, knowing that he'd done a total one-eighty.

John waited while Punk took a second to think about his answer. "Awesome."

John blanched. "Awesome?"

Punk groaned. "Oh, come on, you aren't going to be naggy _and_ jealous?"

"I'm not trying to be!"

"Right. You're totally jelly that Nick and I are off going to craters and golfing while you work for the man."

John froze. "You just said jelly! What is he doing to you?"

Punk laughed. "I was kidding!"

"I feel like I seriously doubt that."

Punk laughed longer than John thought was necessary. "Naggy and jealous, man. Plus you don't put out? Worst girlfriend ever."

"Shut up." John could admit he was getting annoyed.

Punk sighed. "John."

John was silent.

"You sound like your old self."

John considered that for a while. "What do you mean?"

"The John Cena who doesn't worry about anything."

John wasn't so sure. All he knew was he really missed that person. "Let's hope so."

"I think he's back. Give it time."

"I will. Night, man."

"Yep. Night, yourself."

John left the arena feeling better than he had in ages.

* * *

Nick was a great guy.

That's what Punk had decided in the last four days. Thursday had been fun, but he'd had hesitations about the situation. He ignored them for Nick's benefit and kept the concussion in mind. But when he woke up on Friday, the change from the night before had been immediate and noticeable. The guy was in rare form, telling Punk jokes about several of Swagger's funnier misdeeds when they were teaming together. The guy was hilarious, and it had made it easy for Punk to ignore the total of zero hours of slept he'd gotten sticking to the sheets in the guest room, even with the air conditioning and ceiling fan on high.

They'd gotten out and done things. Phoenix was interesting, though far too dry and hot for Punk to ever consider spending more than a few weeks at a time in its deserty embrace. It was sprawling and spread out, so different than Chicago or New York with their tall, close buildings and packed-in denizens.

He'd kept a close eye on Nick at the gym, hoping nothing went wrong. But the guy was careful, and everything worked out. Leaving the gym for the 98 degree heat of the parking lot at ten in the morning was the worst sensation Punk had ever felt, and the second they rolled into Nick's driveway, he'd darted for the pool, throwing himself in sneakers and all. Nick had come to the pool, stood at the edge, and given him a look that said he didn't understand Punk at all. Then the look disappeared and he did a cannonball into the deep end.

He'd been dragged even further into the desert, to an absolute no where, where Punk had been awestruck by the crater he thought was far cooler than the Grand Canyon could ever hope be. Nick had taken him to see bats that lived in the city's flood control tunnels fly off for the night, and he'd managed not to punch him for the Batman joke he'd made at Punk's expense (mostly because it was actually funny and he appreciated the sentiment). They'd even golfed with Nick's friends, who were not the douchebags Punk assumed they might be.

And so what if Punk was now a little obsessed with Jodi Arias? Nick had terrible taste in music (who the fuck was Lana Del Rey and why did she sound like the bastard child of Shirley Bassey and Tupac?) and an even worse singing voice, so, as John would put it, the universe was evening itself out. (In Nick's defense, he knew several Slayer songs by name without checking the dashboard guide, so he'd scored major points there.)

Sitting here now, watching Raw, had thrown Punk off though.

He was honestly shocked that he'd forgot the show was on. He knew it was Monday – he'd never been confused about the day of the week at any point. But the thing about this self-imposed hiatus was that at the beginning of it, Punk had seriously considered retiring for one simple reason.

He was so burnt out on wrestling he was starting to hate it.

He never wanted to hate wrestling. It was his passion, his life. It had saved him countless times. It coursed through his veins and burned out everything else lingering within them when he was in the ring. He didn't care about music, baseball, hockey, or even his lifestyle when he was in that squared circle. All he wanted was to wrestle his heart out, until his body gave out and he was no more. But by the time WrestleMania came around, he'd wanted nothing more than to disappear without a trace.

Maybe if he started to miss it, he could have run off to Mexico and secretly worked as a masked luchador (with a full body suit to cover his ink), but he was happy that idea hadn't come to fruition now that he was in Arizona and had discovered how much this climate sucked.

So he had gone off to rest his knee instead and ignore the existence of wrestling for two months.

But when Nick mentioned Raw, the old butterflies, the ones that swarmed his belly before the bell rang, came rushing back. And that was when he realized that he didn't hate wrestling – he'd just forgot what it was like to love it.

So here they sat, Nick trying to piss off anyone he could with his tweets, and Punk, trying to keep an open mind about everything he was watching. Trying to recapture the love.

Punk's phone lit up again and he read Nick's latest tweet:

_ HEELZiggler  
_lots of (203) calls  
skipping them, obvs  
if this is my last day at WWE  
this is exactly how i want to go out  
haha  
#raw

"I can't even handle it," Punk told him, shaking his head.

Punk had to hand it to him: if he was this guy, he might have non-storyline attacked the wrong person by now. But even when he tweeted and said things like that, he managed to keep his cool (though Punk had seen a few WWE Downloads where he almost hadn't). If he could help him get some frustration out by pushing him to tweet what was on his mind, then so be it. If the guy had to add a couple JKs to ease his own conscience, all the power to him.

But Punk had claimed to be the voice of the voiceless for a reason. If that had to extend to his pseudo-professional personal life, then so be it.

A while later, the show was over, and it was only just after 9. Nick flipped over to MSNBC and fifteen minutes later, Punk's phone lit up with John's name. The guy hadn't responded since Punk's reassuring text on Thursday night, and now he was probably a wound up mess. Punk felt bad he hadn't called himself, but he'd been busy.

He answered and spoke. "Oh, _hey_, Johnny. Long time no talk."

John managed to at least sound a bit awkward when he laughed. "Yeah, I suck."

"Yes, yes you do." He didn't, but Punk could give him hell anyway.

"Are you guys watching Raw?" Ah. So John was going to go with "you guys" for now. Safe.

"Already did. We're pirates."

"So you saw my pitiful win."

"I did. Took that powerbomb like a champ…or the champ in this case."

"As if I never have." John did take it well, so he wasn't going to deny him that fact. Though maybe the "knocked out cold" selling was getting a little old and unbelievable.

Punk nodded at Nick to let him know he was leaving. Nick waved him off in response, barely looking away from the television. Punk went out onto the patio, taking in the slightly cooler night air. It was a relief. "How are you feeling, man?"

"Honestly, Punk? I feel…_good_."

Punk was still for a moment. He hadn't expected to hear that from John. John, who'd spent the last year doing everything during their calls from sobbing over Liz and every he'd done wrong while he'd known her to rambling about carburetors for forty-five minutes without pausing while high on painkillers after his elbow surgery. Hearing John felt good had long felt like a thing of the past, so to hear it right now was…_vintage Cena_.

"Good?" He failed to mask the surprise in his voice.

"Yeah. My ankle feels fine and it's…making me hopeful? I don't really know…"

Punk laughed and found himself able to move again, feeling pretty good himself. "I can't imagine how relieved you must feel, but, seriously? _I'm_ relieved."

"Was I really that naggy?" John sounded honestly concerned over the idea that he'd nagged Punk to his limits.

Punk wasn't going to pull his punches. "Yes. You were the naggiest." He skimmed his toe over the still pool, sending little ripples through the water that gleamed in the moonlight. Simple. But he still thought it was nice looking.

"Well, I didn't _mean _to be."

"But you were, John."

John's sigh was heavy, and Punk thought he might be reverting for a second. "I'm really sorry."

"Don't be." And Punk meant it.

"I didn't mean to be-"

"John. I don't care. You're my friend. I would have cut off my right foot if it made you feel better." Punk couldn't leave it there, couldn't leave all of this as serious as it was coming out. "And I'm rather…_attached_ to my right foot."

John burst into laughter, another wave of relief rushing over Punk at the sound, pure and strong. "You're corny."

"No, that would be you." Because really? John Cena was an absolute goober and it was almost disgusting. _Almost_.

"Nah, that's you."

"No, _you_."

"Oh, _Phil_," John's voice was still deep, but had taken on a shrill quality that cut through Punk in a way he found hilariously uncomfortable. "_You hang up first_!"

"Shut up, John boy."

"How's…Ziggler?"

Punk could hear the distaste in John's voice, the reluctance to call him anything familiar. And they weren't familiar, so Punk expected nothing else from the champion. If there was one thing Punk could never really do to John, it was lie. "Awesome."

"Awesome?"

Punk groaned at the questioning, near-disgusted tone John used. "Oh, come on, you aren't going to be naggy _and_ jealous?"

"I'm not trying to be!"

"Right. You're totally jelly that Nick and I are off going to craters and golfing while you work for the man."

"You just said jelly! What is he doing to you?"

Punk laughed. "I was kidding!" He was. He'd made the conscious decision to say that. Even if it had come out a little more naturally than he would have liked.

"I feel like I seriously doubt that."

Punk laughed hard and long. "Naggy and jealous, man. Plus you don't put out? Worst girlfriend ever."

"Shut up."

Punk quieted at John's annoyance, breathing out a sigh. "John."

John's silence spoke more than anything he could have said.

"You sound like your old self." Punk had wanted to say it the entire conversation, had struggled to word it. But he meant it because this was the real John: laughing, joking, hopeful. Not the bundle of nervous energy he'd been for over a year now.

"What do you mean?"

"The John Cena who doesn't worry about anything."

"Let's hope so."

Punk really hoped so. "I think he's back. Give it time."

"I will. Night, man."

"Yep. Night, yourself."

Punk pocketed his phone and spent another moment outside in the miniscule breeze. The air was so different here; it didn't just feel dry, but it smelled dry too. He hoped it rained while he was here. He couldn't even imagine what it might be like. He almost feared he would forget what rain was like if it didn't, that the desert would suck everything out of him and give nothing back when he left.

He went back in and Nick met his eyes over the back of the couch. "How's the girlfriend?"

Punk laughed as he sat down and stole the remote from Nick's lap, flipping through channels. "He's good."

* * *

AN: Both of Dolph's tweets in this chapter were actual Dolph tweets from May 13th, typos and all. Meteor Crater (original name, isn't it?) is the world's best-preserved meteor impact site, outside of Winslow, AZ, and is on my personal bucket list of places to visit. NASA trained the Apollo astronauts at the site to simulate the surface of the moon. You should go check it out, it's visually stunning, especially when you consider that the meteorite that created it was only 50 meters across. 203 really is the telephone area code for Stamford, CT, among other parts of Connecticut. Also, Lana Del Rey is a goddess. One of her songs really inspires me for much, much later in this story (though all of her songs have been my soundtrack to writing this…though most of them are a bit out there).

Next chapter is a bit of a dozy; prepare yourselves now.


	4. Four

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

AN: Thank you all again for all the positive feedback – so many views! This chapter took me slightly longer to write than other chapters so far because I had to take my time on one section in order to get it right. The section is a little tense and I didn't want it to come out offensive or overdramatic. Sectionsreferencing "the book" are about the book Dolph's brother, Ryan Nemeth (Briley Pierce of NXT fame) wrote, _I Can Make Out With Any Girl Here_.

Special thanks to Annalore and SparksFlyOut for keeping up with this, and stellamarie27 for reviewing! Annalore actually went out and bought a deep-dish pizza pan and made one from scratch, which is the best thing ever.

Chapter Warnings: John and Nikki being adorable. John and Nikki having uncomfortable conversations about the future. Dolph has Briley Pierce feels. And then some. Punk: greatest knight in shining armor ever. Aimless driving. Breakfast. Dog breed talk. Poor Nikki Bella. Unbeta'd.

*There are trigger warnings for this chapter. To see them, please scroll to the VERY bottom of the chapter.

* * *

Waking up at home with the sun shining in his windows, curled up next to a beautiful woman – with time to lay around goofing off – was how John wished he could spend every morning.

This was one of only two days in the last month he'd been able to do so. And it would probably be the last time for another month that he could. But he was thankful nonetheless.

He buried his face in Nikki's hair, taking in a deep breath, letting her smell burn at his tongue, his eyes, his lungs. He nuzzled at her scalp, pulling her tighter against his chest, and she giggled, obviously more awake than John assumed.

"Squeezy much?"

John smiled, kissing all along the back of her neck. "Among other things."

Nikki curled her arm around his and laid her head back to rest against his shoulder, leaving her neck open for the taking. John pressed feather light kisses all along her jaw and grabbed her chin, turning her face to peck her lips. "Good morning."

Nikki blanched. "Oh God, your breath is terrible."

John buried his face against her shoulder, lips pressed against her skin as he spoke. "Yours is nothing to write home about either, doll face."

Nikki groaned and buried her face in the pillow. "No beer before bed ever again."

"Something tells me it was the jalapeno poppers."

Nikki's laugh went right through him. "Or the wings. Jesus, we just went all out!"

"It was a celebration."

"For nothing."

"Best kind of celebration, babe."

John decided Nikki's silence signified her agreement. He ran his hand through her hair for a few minutes, just enjoying the peace of holding her before it would be interrupted with their race to get ready to head out to the next venue. No matter how much time they allotted, the two of them in one bathroom – on a schedule, no less – was always an absolute disaster. The last time, John had knocked half of Nikki's makeup bag into the toilet and had to fish tubes of mascara and ruined brushes out of it. The time before, Nikki had set a towel on fire one the warming rack.

At least they usually laughed about it. If anything like that had happened with…well…John would likely have been divorced far sooner.

Nikki finally weaseled her way out of John's arms, claiming she needed to pee after having his knee lodged against her kidneys the entire night. He followed her cue and got out of bed, working to finish packing his things for the next road trip.

After lunch, and far sooner than John would have liked (and with only one mishap involving Nikki's blouse and the garage door), they were on the road to the airport, ready to go to Kentucky and get into the groove of things before the pay-per-view that weekend.

They were out on the 589, mid-morning light shining in the sunroof and lighting up Nikki's hair. He caught her eye and smiled, and could see her eyes light up, even behind the massive sunglasses she had on.

"Can you imagine how adorable our babies would be?" Nikki gushed.

John laughed at her tone, though he didn't follow. "Our babies?"

"Really. Your dimples and my lips? Heartbreakers." The conviction with which Nikki declared this made John stare.

John pondered the concept for a while…and then realized he was thinking about children who didn't exist – _his_ nonexistent children with Nicole Garcia. John had been divorced for less than a year, married for the four before that, and on and off with Liz for the _century _prior. They'd talked about having kids plenty of times, but had never followed through. He'd never even considered having kids with anyone other than her, and to think about it now was…well, it made John's skin crawl. Though he wasn't sure he was completely opposed to it. It was just…_weird_.

Catching the expectant look on her face, which was quickly slipping and leaving her lips hard set in a straight line, John spoke up. "Honestly, they'd probably come out looking like your sister. And who wants that?"

Nikki cracked a huge smile and punched him in the arm. "Ha. Ha. You are the funniest man alive! Can't even handle it; you're the next Will Ferrell."

"Best in the world over here."

"That you are." She leaned over and placed an exaggerated kiss on his cheek, complete with sound effects. "My superman!"

John grabbed Nikki by the back of the neck and pulled her in, pressing an equally overdone kiss to her temple before dropping his arm to her shoulder and keeping her close. She didn't complain about the center console she was wound around, so John imagined he'd said something right.

And he'd managed to steer her quickly away from the baby topic without anything going wrong. So he chalked it up as a point for him in the grand scheme of life and only made small talk about things they saw the rest of the way to the airport.

When they were checked in and waiting at the gate, he let Nikki catch up on US Weekly and called Punk, head swimming at the thought of little babies with full heads of Bella twin hair.

* * *

Nick startled awake when his phone rang.

He wasn't in bed, but rather sprawled across the couch. The television was still on, the volume set as low as it could go before it muted. He'd passed out at some point; he couldn't even remember what he'd been watching. It was still early, the sun still low through the windows. Glancing at the cable box, he found it was just past nine – late enough for calls from the east coast.

His phone stopped ringing, a notification appearing that he'd missed a call from his brother.

He sat up, rubbing at his sleep heavy eyes. He took a second to get his bearings before calling his brother back.

He picked up on the first ring. "Nick, hey!" His voice was wrong. It was off, saccharine and trying far too hard. Nick thought that Ryan sometimes forgot Nick had known him every second of his life – that he knew him better than he knew himself half the time. Whenever he tried to lie, Nick knew.

His voice was a lie.

"Hey, bro." He could play along though. If his brother needed to lie, he had good reason. Ryan didn't lie. He gave zero fucks about sparing people's feelings. It's what they'd been raised to do – the nuns in school had once told their mom that Ryan was _too_ honest.

"How are you feeling? How's your head?"

Nick rolled it, cracking his neck and rolling out his shoulders, still stiff from spending 10 hours on the couch. "Pretty good. Saw the doctor yesterday. Should be better and on the road soon."

"Good, good." He was silent. There was nothing but silence from either end of the phone. Ryan didn't pause like this. Ryan didn't make small talk like this – he got straight to the point. Nick swore he heard him gulp.

Nick took a second to clear his head, bracing himself and preparing for the worst. "What's wrong?"

"Um…I just called…I have something to tell you."

He didn't miss a beat. "Tell me."

There was silence, and just as Nick was about to repeat himself, Ryan dropped the bomb. "I just got released. Like…literally five minutes ago."

Nick's stomach plummeted. He was silent – everything was silent, even his head. He wasn't processing the words; they sounded so foreign and so wrong. He was going through the statement by syllable, by sound, by every weird pitch in Ryan's voice. This wasn't making any sense. None at all.

Ryan pulled him back in. "Nick? Are you there?"

"Are you fucking around with me?"

"No…why…this…I wouldn't joke about this."

Nick knew that. He knew all too well. Nemeth boys didn't joke about wrestling. "Are you okay? Is everything okay? Do you need money? I don't even know what to do…"

"I'm fine. I'm fine." Ryan was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince him. Nick felt it in his bones. "I'm just…shocked. I'm good, I've still got book money. I'm just…yeah."

"I'm shocked too." And he was. This _fucking_ business. Why was it so fake? Why were they so good at building you up to your face, and so fucking down on your behind your back? Everyone was nothing but yes to your face, and no behind your back.

Why the fuck did they love this business so much? It was just going to tear them apart, piece by piece, until nothing remained.

"I just…I thought I was going to get called up…"

"I did too, Ry." He did. He'd been _told_. They'd told him it was just a matter of months. That his brother was tenacious, just like him. That he was funny, that he connected well, that he could work his ass off.

What had changed? That was _still _Ryan! Fuck, that was their evaluation of him less than two weeks ago! What had gone wrong?

Nick pulled himself together. "You're still great. It's their loss. I'm not just saying that as your brother; I'm saying this as someone who knows what they're talking about: they had no reason to do this."

"But they did, so they must have…I've just got to move on."

"You will. And they'll be crying for you soon, and you'll have options."

"I don't know, bro."

"They will. They'll be begging for you, knocking down your door. Trust me."

"I do."

Nick gulped. "You should come stay."

"No, I'm not imposing."

"When have you ever cared about imposing before?"

Ryan laughed quietly. "You've already got company."

"So? Come. The more the merrier."

"I'm not going to do that."

"Why not?"

"Honestly? Like, I don't want to be a dick, but do you think I want to be around Dolph Ziggler and CM Punk right now? Like…wallowing in my mediocrity with _champions_?"

Nick was shocked into silence.

"Yeah…because I don't, Nick. I'm not being a dick. I just don't want to think about all of this for like…two weeks."

"I'm not Dolph Ziggler. I'm your fucking brother."

"One in the same."

If Nick was perfectly honest, there was a stinging pride in hearing that, but pondering how similar he was to his character was a slippery slope right now. "What are you going to do?"

Ryan's sigh was heavy on Nick's heart. "Honestly? Sit around for a day…maybe just have a normal weekend? I might go see mom and dad…."

"Do that. That's good."

"Yeah. Maybe I can avoid thinking about all of this."

"Don't avoid it."

"I can't just obsess over things the way you do and find an answer. I need to like…sort it out in my own time."

"Yeah. Makes sense." It didn't. Nick didn't understand the propensity to push things away like they hadn't happened. He would rather think about it until he was lost in it. At least then he might figure out the answers to his problems. Ryan had always been the opposite though, letting shit go like it meant nothing.

They were quiet again for a while. Nick's mind felt heavy and he had a million questions. But he knew Ryan just needed him to be there for him, even if he was silent at the other end of the line.

They eventually managed to make small talk for a while. Nick felt good about it, and he really hoped he was helping his brother keep his mind off of it. But Nick knew he had other calls to make, other people to tell. There was no way Nick wasn't first; Ryan came to him first for everything to do with wrestling.

Nick let Ryan go, and he sat on the couch, with no clue what to think or feel. He looked around on twitter for news, but couldn't help tweeting his frustrations.

_ HEELZiggler  
countless WWE peeps personally told me how hard HotYoungBriley worked & how he was the most entertaining guy in NXT  
#WeirdBiz_

He threw his phone aside and stared at his quiet television, eyes following the words across the news ticker, but taking in none of what he read.

His brain felt like it would never turn off. He wasn't thinking anything specific at the moment – it was all just white noise. He felt like he was catching glimpses of each of the thoughts racing through, but not seeing enough to comprehend them.

He had no clue what was going on. He couldn't understand how his brother – who really was better than a lot of guys, it was kind of obvious – could have been let go this early in the game. The same brother he'd sometimes been sure would surpass him within a year of getting called up to the main roster.

He suddenly grabbed onto one of the thoughts he was having, and his stomach was sent back into free fall.

Because no. That was ridiculous. There was no way that had anything to do with this. No way. No chance. Not at all.

But the thought kept circling back up no matter how many times Nick tried to push it out of the loop: _your fault_.

Nick constantly worried if the things he did and said – the undermining tweets here, the sarcastic throw away insults there – would one day come back to bite him in the ass. It wasn't some all-consuming worry; he managed to get over them as quickly as they came most days. But in all that time, he'd worried for himself. He was always aware of the distinct possibility that he may piss off the wrong person and lose a title shot, lose a storyline shot, that he would wake up one day to find himself totally buried, that he'd get released before ever making an impact.

The one thing he'd never considered was his brother bearing the brunt of his actions.

But after Monday, maybe he was. Maybe they'd seen a lack of opportunity with Nick – releasing the guy in the middle of a contract, while he was World Heavyweight Champion, while he was concussed, while he was pulling in serious merchandise money would not have gone over well. But his brother, someone whose contract was far looser, who was only in developmental, who Nick had repeatedly shown his love for…Ryan was an easy target.

Fuck this. Nick had tweeted and said bullshit like this all the time, and not once had anyone ever told him to stop. If this was their version of warning him, it was getting through loud and clear, and _holy shit_ was it fucked up.

Why the fuck did he let Punk challenge him? It wasn't Punk's fault. He knew that. But Punk didn't get it. Punk wasn't like him anymore. He had a contract for millions, he was a cash cow, they actually _believed_ in Punk. He could say anything he fucking wanted and no one cared at all because it was just Punk being Punk, _gosh, isn't he just a rebel?_

Maybe he should have answered those 203 phone calls on Monday night. Maybe he should have shut his mouth occasionally. Maybe he should have thought before he did things. Because he never did – he was an impulsive asshole.

Like when he'd been a dick to Cena the week before. Had Cena said something? Cena could say anything he wanted; his word was gospel. Part of Nick really doubted it though. He was sure if Cena was actually pissed he would have whined about it to Punk by now and Nick would have heard.

But, Jesus Christ, this was his _baby brother_. Nick could remember being four and holding Ryan when he was barely half an hour old, not understanding the gravity of what had just gone on, but getting that this squirming little bundle was his fucking kin and _FUCK._

He sank onto his back, trying to find his way back into his abandoned blanket fort just to find a bit of comfort, but he realized quickly he was past the point of being okay.

What was Ryan supposed to do now? It wasn't like the book was a bestseller – that money was going to run out. He was so smart and so talented, but shit took time. Nick got that – he'd gone through developmental with no money except what his parents sent him and what he had left in graduation savings because that salary had been meager at best. There was no way Ryan had saved any of it – he'd lived off it.

Ryan had other aspirations, but Nick could remember them being small and wrestling each other during WrestleMania 3 and thinking, even then, that they were going to do this together when they were grown up. It had been both their dreams.

Had Nick stripped Ryan of his dream in favor of his own?

That idea was even worse. Was Nick still in possession of his career right now because Ryan wasn't? Could Nick maybe call and offer to hand over the title if they would call Ryan back and say they were kidding?

Did Nick only have the title right now because Ryan didn't have his job?

His head was pounding like it hadn't in over a week. He was concussed. He shouldn't be stressing like this. But fuck, Ryan was definitely stressing, so why shouldn't he?

Concussions were so fucking stressful. So fucking scary. All of this was so scary. What if his brain just never got better? What if he ended up like Sidney Crosby where he lingered in postconcussive syndrome for months afterward, never able to fully return to action, losing out on everything?

God, what if they were still going to fire him when he came back in a couple of weeks? What if they were just going to let him come back to get totally embarrassed and then just let him go?

What if he went back and got concussed again? Oh god, what if he got multiple concussions? What if he ended up like all those NFL players with brain damage and Alzheimer's? What if his amnesia came back, but it was real amnesia this time? What if he couldn't remember how to wrestle? What if he had already forgotten stuff but he couldn't remember it because he'd forgotten not remembering it? What if his amnesia had really just been the early stages of Alzheimer's he already had? Fuck, he'd been concussed no less than five times before. His brain was done for, he was totally sure of it. It was a fucking miracle he was breathing!

Except he wasn't.

Nick hadn't realized he was hyperventilating, that his heart was speeding up, that he was shaking, that the blankets on the couch were suddenly hot and overbearing and sticking to his moist skin. He didn't know how long it had been going on, but he gasped and shot up. On his quick rise to stand, his knee caught the end of the glass coffee table, flipping it over with a loud bang.

He gasped again, trying to catch his breath, but he couldn't. He wrenched his shirt over his head, though he could barely unclench the muscles in his chest long enough to lift his arms over his head. That stupid piece of fabric just wasn't helping right now, with its tight hug on his torso. He grabbed his chest and found his hands were cold and wet and shaking when they met the heated skin above his heart.

Fuck, he was having a heart attack. There was no way this was normal.

He still wasn't catching his breath. He could feel his stomach rising back up from its previous low. He started gagging as he slumped to sit on the floor, legs pulled into his chest. He was choking. God, he was going to choke to death on air.

He gasped. And gasped. And gasped.

* * *

Punk wasn't asleep by any stretch of the imagination when he heard weird noises from downstairs, and then a heavy crash.

Now, Punk wasn't someone to jump up and investigate things – he was from Chicago after all. But Nick's house was usually pretty quiet, and the guy was still recovering from an injury. Plus, Punk had seen his first Gila Monster the previous day, and he was fairly certain those things were cunning enough to get into a house and ransack it.

He rolled out of bed, pulled on a shirt, pocketed his phone, and went downstairs.

The television was still on, but Punk couldn't hear it over the loud choking sounds coming from the couch. He hurried over and found Nick red on the floor, sweat beading on his forehead, hand around his own neck, gasping for breath.

"Holy shit!" Punk slid to a knee next to him, ready to lift him off the ground and give him the Heimlich if necessary. "Are you choking?" He pulled Nick's hand away from his throat, but Nick's other hand came up and clawed at Punk's arm, blunt nails digging in hard enough to make Punk hiss in pain. "Are you choking?" he repeated, almost yelling this time, trying to grab him by the back of the head so he would quit flailing.

Nick shook his head and kept gasping. Punk forced his hand around Nick's wrist, trying in vain to take his pulse or just _something_ to help him. "Does your chest hurt? Is it your heart? I don't know what to do!"

Nick shook his head again, and grabbed Punk by the shoulders. Punk looked at him head on. Tears chasing each other down his cheeks, absolute wide-eyed panic. Nick's fingers were digging into his delts, and Punk had to mirror Nick's grasp in order to keep his balance as the blonde man pulled at him. "What's wrong? You have to tell me what's wrong or I can't help!"

"My brother," he gasped before he could finish his thought. He was hyperventilating – Punk got that now. He was still getting air, but it was all wrong. His voice was stressed and hoarse; it was all so wrong. Punk could feel his own heart rate kicking up and willed himself to stay calm. He really wished he had a paper bag or something, but there was no way he was going to get to the kitchen. Not now.

"Is he okay? Are you okay?"

Nick nodded and then shook his head like he couldn't decide either way, but Punk understood: he's fine; I'm not. He was mumbling, crying harder now. Somewhere between gasps, sobs, and weird words like "dreams" and "book" Punk caught "released".

That wasn't a word their circle took lightly. And it clicked.

Punk looked at Nick for a moment, trying to come up with something – _anything_ – to do. "Your brother got released?"

Nick nodded, collapsing into Punk's chest and shaking there, crying and gasping for a while. Punk let him, hands now trapped awkwardly grasping at his shoulders so that he couldn't let go or hold the guy…or even decide which he would do if he were free.

Punk kneaded his fingers into Nick's shoulders, trying to give him some sort of sensory distraction. "You have to breathe. You're going to pass out if you don't breathe."

Nick nodded and didn't stop nodding for a while, fisting Punk's shirt and burying his face in it. Punk kept repeating himself, not sure if he was trying to remind Nick or himself. His heart was pounding. He realized he'd been so scared, and that itself was pretty scary too.

They'd been sitting there longer than Punk had kept track of when Nick's breathing began to right itself. The gasps spaced themselves out, but the shaking increased. Punk was sure Nick was going to tear his shirt off if he tugged any tighter on it. Punk finally freed his hands, and he managed to grab him and steady himself before all of Nick's weight was on him. "Can you breathe?"

"Yes." It was choked, but if he was speaking, he was breathing, he wasn't gasping.

"Are you okay?"

"No."

"Will you be okay?"

"Probably not."

Punk squeezed his shoulders in a way he thought was reassuring. The worst of the noises, the ones that had really had Punk scared, finally stopped, but Nick hiccupped every so often, choking back sobs. He'd gone from red to paler than Punk thought possible for someone who wore that much self tanner. He was practically kneeling in Punk's lap, his shirt tear and saliva-soaked, twisted in his white-knuckled fists. "Can we get up? Can you stand?"

Nick shrugged, but tried anyway. He stood on fawn's legs. Punk supported some of his weight and they both made it to their feet without any major issues. Punk got a better look at him – he was wrecked. "Come on," he told Nick, keeping an arm around his shoulders and heading toward the back door.

"What…the fuck just happened to me?" Nick puffed out a breath of laughter.

Punk almost laughed too, but he knew if he did, he might cry. At least Nick was still funny. "I don't know. Let's go outside."

Nick nodded and Punk pulled the door open, herding him to the patio set and sitting him at the table. Nick's head and shoulders slumped forward as he leaned against his knees, but he seemed far more relaxed out here than he had inside. Punk slid into the chair next to him and let him be for a few minutes.

"Are you all right?" He only asked when he felt like his own heart rate was finally back to normal, when his feet weren't numb, when he was finally thinking to himself that this heat was disgusting.

Nick looked up at him, face red and puffy. "I have no idea," he told him softly, monotonously. "What the fuck…"

"I think you were panicking."

"I was _definitely_ panicking."

"Does this usually happen to you?"

"No."

Punk nodded in understanding. Nick's pupils were blown and he couldn't really seem to focus on anything in particular. "Stay here."

Nick didn't acknowledge the command. Punk went back inside and got him a bottle of water, found Nick's shirt on the couch, and grabbed his things and a pair of shoes for each of them from the door. He came back out and Nick looked at him curiously. He handed him the bottle, and Nick went at it like he hadn't had water in days.

Punk offered him his shoes and Nick eyed them, like he wasn't sure what their purpose was. Punk shrugged, setting them on the ground and pulling his own on. He waited and Nick didn't move. "I'm going out, but if you want to stay…"

Nick pulled his shoes and shirt on faster than Punk thought possible in this state.

* * *

The city passed Nick by in a blur of blue sky and brown earth and white, white light. He'd lost track a while ago of where they were going, back when they were only blocks from his house. He had no clue how long they'd been driving.

Every few minutes, he would catch his hand shaking and have to make a fist to stop it. He could feel the blood pounding through his skull. The air conditioning had him cold, even thought there was still sweat sliding down his back.

All the while, he felt like he was floating over the car, not really there. Somewhere up in the atmosphere with the clouds. Over the desert, never coming back down, not ever again.

He stayed curled against the door until they pull into a café and Nick realizes they've just been circling around the city for the past hour. He realizes it's helped. He realizes he's exhausted. He realizes he's distracted. He can barely remember what just happened.

Punk leads him from the car and does all the talking, makes all the eye contact. They get seated outside and the openness, the fresh air, helps even more. Punk keeps talking and Nick dutifully sips and picks at everything that ends up in front of him. They're silent the entire meal.

After Punk's requested the check, Nick can feel his eyes on him. They don't leave. Nick finally meets his eye. "You okay?" And he knows Punk means it, just from his tone. The sincerity in his eyes just backs it up.

Nick nodded. "No."

* * *

Punk can see Nick slowly coming back to himself. He knows he's going to need a little more time to calm down, to get back in his own head, because Punk knows he hasn't been there at all since he found him. When they get back to the house, Nick retreats up the stairs, and Punk doesn't expect to see him again that day; he isn't going to attempt to either.

He rights the fallen coffee table and gets the mountain of blankets folded and off in a chair across the room. (Seriously? How is Nick sleeping with any of these? Punk is sleeping with nothing but the top sheet, and he still wakes up a sweaty mess after 30 minutes.)

He watches television for a while. He never even changes the channel from where Nick had it, and he really doesn't give a fuck.

When his phone rings, he knows without looking it's John.

"Hey man!" John is bubbly and happy and it almost throws Punk for a loop after the morning he's had.

"What's up?"

"Airport. House show. Not all of us just get to go off on vacation."

Punk snorted. "Yeah, okay. You could, asshole."

"Not right now."

"Whatever."

They were quiet for a bit before John spoke up. "You all right?"

"Yeah. Just had a long morning."

"I need to have words with Ziggler, or…?"

_Never. Don't. He can't act like that ever again. Don't push him._ "No. Jealous much?"

"Am not. Shut up."

"Yeah, you're right."

"I'm _right_?" John sounded confused.

Punk laughed. "Yeah, sometimes you can be. I know it's a hard concept for you to handle but…"

"I'm legitimately shocked."

"I am too." Punk thought for a minute. "The three of us should go out once I'm back. I think you guys might actually get along…you're pretty similar." Punk wanted to say "you're both really good at freaking out and scaring the shit out of me," but he figured John might not appreciate that.

"…I find that hard to believe."

"Well, believe it. You're both ridiculous." They are. They are both absolutely fucking insane. They both make Punk edgy and insane. They're all the fucking same.

"I'm not ridiculous."

"Yes you are. You're the most ridiculous person I've ever met. You're like a weight-lifting golden retriever."

"If I'm a golden retriever, what's Ziggler? A poodle?"

"Is there one of those dumbass designer names for a toy poodle and a Chihuahua? Because that's definitely it. Only put in that machine from _Honey, I Blew Up the Baby_ so it's like, the size of a Great Dane."

"Chipoo."

"This is why you're ridiculous. How the fuck do you know something like that?"

"Hey. I almost bought one for Nikki; I've done my research."

"I feel like Nikki might not actually appreciate that as much as you think she would. And I'm also pretty sure that you just Google cute little dog pictures in your spare time." Punk was _actually_ sure of it – he'd caught John doing it several times before. "I think my IQ dropped twenty points when you said that: Chipoo? Seriously?"

"I don't think it's possible for your IQ to drop below zero, Punk."

Punk could imagine the smirk on John's face. "Fuck off."

"What would you do without me if I just fucked off, hm? You wouldn't be able to go on."

John was probably right. "You give yourself far too much importance in my life."

"I'm the most important thing in your life after Chicago and tattoos."

Punk hated him. "…That's fairly accurate."

"Knew it."

"Shut up. You're making my headache worse."

"Oh, you have a headache? Go take an aspirin…oh wait! You can't"

"Fuck you."

"Guess you'll have to have a warm glass of milk and a nap, Punky Brewster."

"Maybe I'll go snuggle with Nick and make you jealous."

"…That's pretty much the last thing that would make me jealous." John was laughing pretty hard by the time he finished speaking. Punk could have kicked himself. "If that's what you two are into though…"

"Fuck off."

"The more you say that, the less impact it has on me. Plus, I can't get the image of you being spooned by Ziggler while you suck your thumb out of my head. So it's having absolutely zero impact at this point."

"I'm going. You're intolerable."

"Fine. Have a good nap, snugglepuss."

"Don't think you got out of hanging out with him either, by the way. It's my newest mission."

"That's going to be a failure, but, whatever. Your time, not mine."

"Ugh. Bye!" Punk ended the call and threw his phone on the coffee table in annoyance.

Fucking John.

* * *

Nikki tried to keep her eyes on her magazine and off of John while he sat on the phone. She really did. She thanked God she had her earbuds in and the volume on her phone as high as she could tolerate it. Thank goodness for didn't even have to ask whom he was on the phone with to know. He only got that way talking to one person, and it wasn't her. And in the less than three days they'd been together this week, he'd already talked to him seven times, not including this call.

Sometimes, she wished John felt the way he did about Punk about her.

It wasn't like John had some big gay crush on Punk. That was laughable. But God, he trusted that man more than he trusted himself. He went to him for advice on everything (Nikki had once heard him have a twenty minute debate about which shirt he should wear at a _house show_ with the guy, and in the end, he went with Punk's opinion anyway, despite fighting against it vehemently. Why he'd asked for Punk's opinion in the first place, Nikki would never understand). He relayed literally every piece of his life to the man.

Nikki was fairly certain Punk knew more about her sex life than she did. It was that bad.

Sometimes she thought she was jealous of Punk. Other times, she was disappointed in John. She didn't know which was the truth, or if her true feelings were some amalgamation of the two.

She constantly felt let down that John would rather confide in Punk than her. If this relationship was going to lead anywhere in the long run, John was going to have to start shifting some of his confidences toward her. Nikki feared that it wasn't going to happen, and that hurt. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with John; she wanted to start a family with John. But so far, it seemed as if John was perfectly content to linger in this "we're serious, but it's not going anywhere right now" state they'd been in since Christmastime.

It just hurt – a lot – to know the man you wanted to be your husband, the father of your children, was content to remain in bachelorhood rather than put his life together with you.

Nikki wanted to cry when John smiled, dimples deeper than they ever were when he smiled at her.

* * *

AN: I'm a terrible, horrible, no good person.

* * *

*Trigger Warnings: Panic attack from first person POV


	5. Five

Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

AN: Many thanks again for feedback, views, etc. Thank you to Annalore and InYourHonour for reviews.

Chapter Warnings: Punk is the vegan Rachel Ray. Dolph and Punk have a heart to heart that leaves Punk unsatisfied. Nikki is going to kill John. Punk imagines John and Nikki's imaginary family and isn't a fan. Dolph asks for pity shots in place of pity fucks.

* * *

Nick ordered Extreme Rules a half hour before it started. He was willing pay $45 despite Punk's insistence that the WWE wasn't_ really_ wiretapping his house ("I was only kidding!...the third time I suggested it…"). He dutifully ignored Punk's digs about his rising paranoia levels.

At least those were the only jokes at his expense. God knew Punk had more than enough material to go on.

There had been no mentions of the…_incident_ since it occurred. Nick had spent the rest of the day, and the entire night, up in his room alternating between sleeping and laying awake wishing he was sleeping because he felt so odd.

Saturday went far better than Friday had.

He'd pulled himself out of bed after a sunrise nap, feeling a little wired, but mostly better. He'd made coffee and gone out to sit by the pool. Being in the living room had still felt a little too stifling and made his skin itch a little. A bit later, Punk had come out to join him, his own mug in hand.

Nick waited on the edge of his seat for Punk to bring up what had happened the day before, so anxious that he was sure he was going to start freaking out again, when Punk simply asked, "Want to go to the gym?"

It was then that Nick knew he didn't have to worry about what had happened and it wasn't going to be a problem.

Now here he sat, ready to watch the pay-per-view, Punk off in the kitchen throwing together some crazy vegan concoction he swore Nick would find enjoyable. Nick was skeptical, but he'd try anything for the experience (especially if the experience ended terribly and he could rib Punk about it forever).

"What are you pouting about?" Punk called from the counter.

Nick turned to look at him, watching as he methodically chopped…something. Nick had never seen that vegetable – fruit? – which he found a little off-putting. "I'm not pouting."

"You're pouting."

"I'm pouting about how hungry I'm going to be after you feed me that…whatever that is."

"It's Romanesco broccoli and it's delicious and it cost me $7 for this one head, so don't complain about it, _Ziggy_."

"It looks like a Pokémon."

Punk furrowed his brow. "It might be. There is a very good chance they based one of them off of this."

"Then it isn't vegan."

"Pokémon are created from data. So it is."

Nick shrugged. "Whatever. I'm mortified that you know that, and I still think you're going to poison me."

"Yeah, with better health. Maybe it'll erase some of the effects of that powder you think is helping you."

"Hey, that powder is…mostly made from things that occur in nature. Sometimes." Punk threw a piece of something yellow at Nick, who caught it and ate it, smirking. "This tastes like water."

"Whatever, man. It's delicious and it's fibery."

"Is that why you spend thirty minutes in the bathroom every morning?"

"No…that's for other purposes."

Nick snorted and joined Punk in the kitchen, taking a seat at the island across from Punk's workstation. "Please spare me that explanation."

Punk narrowed his eyes. "It's to trim my beard."

Nick shrugged. "If that's what you like to call it, we'll go with that." He really didn't want to know either way what Punk was doing in there (plus, Punk was starting to get mutton chops and he didn't want to criticize the lack of progress he was making in those thirty minutes).

"Ha ha. You're so funny."

"I try." Nick grabbed a piece of what he was pretty sure was radish and popped it in his mouth. Definitely radish.

"For someone so against this meal, you sure are eating a lot of it."

"Hey. That first piece you pretty much forced me to eat-"

"I was trying to re-concuss you with it."

"-And radishes are my favorite, so…"

Punk set his knife down and stared at Nick, confusion on his face. "I'm sorry, _radishes_? _Radishes_ are your favorite?"

"Yes."

"They are no one's favorite. They are filler."

"Well, sign me up for their fan club. I can't get enough of them. And Luna Lovegood feels the same." To emphasize his point, Nick grabbed another hunk of the chopped vegetable, and popped it in his mouth, smiling cheerfully at Punk.

Nick immediately laughed at the look on Punk's face – somewhere between disbelief and exasperation. "I would say "Oh my God", but...I don't have a God-"

"Stan Lee."

Punk stared off in thought before continuing. "I would say "Oh my Stan Lee", but I don't want to take the Lord's name in vain."

"Gosh, babe, save the "Oh my God" for bed!" Punk beamed him in the forehead with something hard and orangey, and Nick frowned. Punk threw his fist up in a celebratory fashion. "Oh, _shut up_. That's the only time since you got here I haven't caught something you've thrown; don't get cocky."

"Oh, don't you worry; I'll save the cocky," he emphasized the word with an eyebrow waggle, "for later, _babe_."

"You're gross. Like hardcore, to the max gross."

Punk smirked and popped a cube of radish in his mouth, going back to chopping.

Nick watched Punk continue in silence. His hands moved quickly, surely, and Nick thought it was pretty…cool, though he usually found cooking a little boring. But Punk was into it, a little passionate about that, and Nick found himself attracted to cooking for the first time. His eyes widened as Punk poured some sort of liquid that smelled ridiculously spicy – was that label in _Cantonese_? – into the pile, before throwing it all in a pan and stir frying it.

Punk started rambling about how he was considering taking his diet to the next level and going macrobiotic if he could get back on the vegan track full time ("Can't believe I ate so much dairy this week. I might as well snort cocaine."). Nick asked if he was trying to look like Kate Moss in the long run and got a glare for his comedic efforts, quickly raising his hands in defense, fully expecting another thrown veggie attack that didn't come. He was slightly disappointed.

Punk eventually finished after an attempt at flipping the contents of the pan ended in a good fifth of it landing on the floor, Punk – looking sheepish, for what Nick believed was the first time ever – quickly turning off the stovetop and plating their meals as Nick laughed and cleaned up.

Grabbing his plate and taking a whiff, he was sorry to say that it smelled pretty great.

They sat on the couch and Nick dug in and tried to pretend like he didn't love what he was eating.

"Oh my Stan Lee! We missed the preshow! Whatever will I do without that luscious Miz on my screen?"

Nick choked on a bite of his dinner, and Punk laughed harder than he'd ever heard him laugh, clapping him on the back – not helping in any way – in an effort to dislodge the offending bite.

When Nick could breathe again he glared at his guest. "Wow, you're such a dick."

"Oh, come on. Putting guys in the preshow is like putting them on _Superstars_. It's fucking offensive."

"Shut up." Nick focused on his plate and kept eating. If someone like Miz, former WWE _fucking_ champion, was on the preshow, it was just a matter of time before Nick was off begging Dixie Carter for a contract. And that sounded pretty gross.

Nick caught Punk watching him eat, smirk growing. "What?"

"You like it. Admit it. That's the best thing you've had in weeks."

"Better than your fucking pizza."

"You mean _our_ pizza, Ziggy-poo. Don't deny its parentage."

"Shut up." Punk threw his hands up defensively, but heeded Nick's request.

They ate in silence through a couple of matches.

Nick knew it wasn't Punk's intention to anger him, but at least Mike got to be on the preshow. He knew that even though Ryan – who he'd talked to the day before – was angry ("I would never go back, what assholes!") at this point, he really wished he could have been on anything, even something everyone looked down on as much as they did Superstars, because at least he would still be with the company. Fuck, being on Superstars would have been a step up from NXT.

No. Nick wasn't going down that road now. Not when he was trying to enjoy himself and watch some wrestling and he was eating this delicious…whatever it was.

He looked over at Punk who was watching him, dinner abandoned in his lap, lip ring tucked into his mouth.

"…Is something wrong?"

"What happened was kind of shitty, you know that right? But…it happens."

Nick sighed. He really didn't want to have this conversation. Not right now. "Yes. I know. I've been around the block too…"

"It's happened to better guys." Nick glared at him. "I'm not saying he wasn't good. He was good for someone who never worked anywhere but here. But he'll be fine. And I Googled him, so I know he has other stuff going on…"

"That's not the point though."

"I know."

"Then what's _your_ point?"

Punk placed his plate on the coffee table and repositioned himself to face Nick. "I just want to make sure you're okay."

"…You want to make sure I'm okay?"

"Yeah. For some unknown reason. Possibly because I'd like for you to never have a panic attack like that in my presence again."

Nick's chest tightened up at the phrase he was avoiding even thinking of. He quickly brushed it off, but it lay there under the surface, twisting itself around enough to twinge. "_You_ would like me to never have one again?"

"Just not in my presence!"

Nick rolled his eyes and turned back to the television, stabbing at – was that seaweed? – what was left on his plate with no real purpose. "Wow. That's so nice, Punk. Seriously. _I appreciate it_."

"Hey!" Punk grabbed Nick's wrist and pried the fork out of it, stealing the plate away as well and setting them with his. "Look. That came out wrong. And I don't know how much sap you can take…"

"You? Sappy?"

"No. Not really…but look. I meant that I don't want you having one again. Because you might not say it, but I can: that shit was scary. I've seen stuff a lot worse, but that was not something that needed to happen. And I'm just trying to figure it out because you don't seem like someone who goes around freaking out like that…"

Nick slammed his fork down. "Can we drop this?"

"Can we? Yeah. But, will we?" Punk shook his head. "Nah. Not right now."

"Ughhhhhhh."

"Yeah. That's how I feel about this, but I have some puppy-saving moral compass that makes me take care of shit like this when it comes to my friends, okay?" Nick looked down at his lap at that. "Because you _are_ my friend, Nick. And this little crusade probably has something to do with the whole 'always the designated driver' thing too, but whatever."

Nick looked over at him. "You have a serious complex."

"I'm rather simple." That shit-eating grin…

Nick groaned and rolled his eyes. "God, you have the worst sense of humor too."

"I have no sense of humor, that's the problem."

"Whatever, Punk."

"Nope, come on. Are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm _fine_. Can we quit this?" Nick tried to give Punk his most intimidating look.

Punk rolled his eyes. "You look like a kitten."

"Shut up."

"I get that you're going to keep telling me that you're okay, and I'm going to do my best to _try_ and believe that. But I just want to make sure you know why that happened to you because I don't know…"

"Yeah, Punk. I know."

"Want to talk about it?"

No. He really didn't. "When the hell did you become a therapist?"

Punk shrugged. "Didn't mean to. Some people just give me a lot of practice."

"You know, you don't actually have to care, right?"

"Yeah, I didn't really want to, but hanging around you made me care. So you're going to have to deal with that."

Nick considered this for a moment. "Can you maybe be an asshole right now? That would help."

"No. Not right now."

Nick groaned and threw his head back, nearly defeated. He really didn't want to go through this right now, but Punk was persistent and it was annoying…and _possibly_ chipping away at Nick's resolve. But he still wasn't going to give up. He didn't want to talk about Ryan, his guilt, his small bit of anger toward Punk, his anxiety about Cena's douchebaggery, his concussion, his absolute belief he was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer's…none of it.

"Can we talk about this later? Please? I promise I'll talk about it, just not right now, okay?"

Punk almost – _almost_ – lit up in victory, but he quickly suppressed it. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you want."

Nick was sure if he'd been any cockier he might have punched him and meant it.

Nick breathed a sigh of relief and tried to get back into the matches before him. He nearly lost it laughing during the I Quit match ("Are they seriously going to keep asking them like that?") and he couldn't help but rib on Cena throughout the Last Man Standing match ("You need to tell John to quit wasting fire extinguishers like that. What if there was an actual fire? Are people supposed to get Kane'd because John Cena wanted to put on a show?"

"Nick, shut the fuck up.").

And when Ryback crashed Cena through the screen, he saw Punk tense up out of the corner of his eye. He shot him a look, but Punk just shook his head and muttered, "Planned." He went back to normal when the camera crew got them back on the screen.

They both groaned their way through most of the cage match, though Punk occasionally laughed at Heyman's antics.

And in the end, when a much calmer Nick turned the television off for the night, Punk gave him an expectant look that he caved under.

"I just felt really bad about it because I feel like I played a hand in it, all right?"

Punk's brow furrowed low and his eyes narrowed. "What, did you tell people to release him and then get guilty about it?"

"No! I would never do that to anyone…I just felt like it was my fault."

"I'm really not sure how it could have been…"

"People really were calling me on Monday, you know? And I might have said too much all at once. I can get away with that stuff one tweet at a time but…maybe I went a little overboard."

"…You seriously think that? I think that's bullshit. I think there's a million more things you could say."

"Well, I don't think so."

"I think you're wrong. I think they had a other reasons, bullshit reasons of course, and your tweets were probably not one of them. They do crazy shit like this all the time. Look at Colt."

Nick snorted. "This is different."

"How?"

"Because it's _my_ brother! I did this to him because I couldn't keep my mouth shut. It's my fault."

Punk gave him a look that Nick just knew meant he thought he was a total idiot. "Nick. It isn't."

"Then whose fault is it?" Because Nick wasn't sure whom to blame, and if Punk knew, he better let him know. Especially if it was Cena, that god damn…

Punk smiled fondly. "No one's? Everyone's? Who knows? The company just makes stupid choices sometimes. They work in mysterious ways man. This is probably one of them. Again, look at Colt. I bet you by this time next year both of them are on Raw, feuding over the intercontinental title or something equally as ridiculous."

Nick glared. "…You're looking at me the way Danny Tanner did when he would give Stephanie a great piece of advice at the end of Full House."

Punk punched him in the arm. "I did just give you a great piece of advice. It's really not your fault, man. Fuck 'em all. They realize mistakes they made like that all the time and bring people back, it's not a huge deal…." That stupid shit-eating grin crept back onto Punk's face. "Besides, you aren't important enough to punish over tweets anyway; no one sees yours or cares."

Nick returned the punch. "Asshole."

"Nothing I haven't heard before."

Nick sighed. "I have a headache now."

Punk gave him an exaggerated pout. "But, _babe_, you _always_ get a headache!"

Nick laughed at Punk and got up. "You're ridiculous and I'm going to bed."

He gathered up both their plates and took them to the kitchen, cleaning them off and washing them, ignoring Punk's fake sobs and stage whispers of, "All the spark is gone! What has marriage done to our passion?"

He could feel Punk's eyes on him the entire time, but said nothing. After taking his time to dry each and every drop of water off the plates and put them back just so, he turned around and Punk was watching ESPN, studiously ignoring him.

Nick rolled his eyes and headed for his room.

"Nick." He turned back around, but Punk still wasn't facing him. "Not your fault, man."

Nick nodded and went up to bed.

* * *

John was buzzed on adrenaline when he got back to his dressing room. He always got like that after long, intense matches, and the high spot at the end had been a stroke of genius he was happy to take part in. Sure, he was slightly banged up – not from "landing" on that metal contraption – because he'd been laid up there in the time it "took" for the ref and the cameras to get back there – but from all the other slams through the match.

It was a good feeling if John ever knew one.

He was just pulling his shirt on when he heard the door open, and turned to find Nikki coming in.

"Hey, babe," he greeted, pulling her into a hug.

She was stiff against his chest, failing to return the embrace.

He pulled back a little and studied her face for a moment: the hard set of her eyes, the raised eyebrows, the sucked in cheeks.

"…What's wrong?" He slowly let her go and studied her tense form.

Nikki pursed her lips and looked away from John, taking in a breath so deep, her entire body trembled at the attempt to fill its rigidity. "Oh, I don't know…is there anything you've forgotten to tell me about lately, _babe_?"

John quickly racked his brain. He was especially good at thinking quickly with an angry woman in front of him – he had enough practice. He immediately thought of his unchanged schedule, so there were no messed up plans between them. He wracked his brain, desperate for anything she might be pissed about, but only one thing came to mind…and he was fairly certain he had no STDs….

"No…?"

Nikki stared incredulously at him. He was pretty sure if her expression could talk it would be asking him if he was a fucking moron. John wasn't sure how he would answer. "Is that a _question_, or your _answer_, John? Because I'm pretty sure that was a question."

He could tell she was one wrong answer from punching him. Granted, he was a pro-wrestler, but she had a mean right hook he liked to steer clear of, even when they were just play fighting. "No! It was my answer!"

She began laughing and he took a step back, totally frightened for his balls. "Are you serious right now? Let me take you back to fifteen minutes ago, John! Because I looked like a complete asshole running around frantically trying to find out if you were okay! _Stagehands_ were giving me looks like I had lost my mind! Because when someone isn't warned that their boyfriend is going to go through an LED screen in a fiery blaze of pyro, and land on a fucking metal – I don't even know what that was! – they tend to become concerned about their boyfriend's wellbeing! Especially when they're taken off on a stretcher with a brace around their not-so-great neck!" She was crying by the time she was done.

John's heart sank. He knew – no – he _swore_ he had told her the minute he and Ryan had come up with the spot the previous week. There was no way he hadn't. She had to have forgotten. "Nik, I definitely told you!"

"No! You didn't, John!" She was almost shrill. "I think I would remember you saying, 'Oh! Hey babe! By the way! At the end of my match, Ryan is going to tackle me through the TitanTron and there's going to be an explosion and I'm going to get carted away, but I'll be fine!' Are you just fucking _dumb_, John?"

"No! Why are you so upset? I told you what was going to happen! It isn't my fault you forgot!"

"_Why would I forget about something like this?_ You didn't tell me!"

"I did. Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Nicole. I told you!" He tore his phone from his pocket to search for the message he'd most _definitely_ sent her. "You better fucking apologize when I find this, for the love of fucking-"

"I better apologize?" Definitely shrill now. "How about I stick my foot so far up your ass-"

"Now you're being ridiculous."

"_With good reason!_"

John scrolled and scrolled through his messages to Nikki, absolutely sure that he would find it. There were silly selfies, pictures of cool things they saw when they were apart, long emoji exclusive conversations, and actual messages. John was so sure, so absolutely certain the message was there.

But as he got back to messages from April, he realized that it doesn't wasn't.

He slowed his scrolling, apprehensive about looking up, about admitting defeat. But when he did, Nikki's gaze was teary and sullen, as if she didn't want him to admit there was no message just as much as he didn't.

"You _never_ told me, John."

"I must have."

"You didn't." She was so quiet compared to her previous screams that he had to strain to make out the words.

"…are you sure?"

Her look was pleading. All he could do was nod his understanding: she was sure.

"Nik, I'm…"

"I know."

"I didn't mean…I must have just thought I got everyone…"

"Everyone meaning…?"

"You. My family. Couple of trustworthy friends…"

"Like Punk?"

John was taken aback at who she chose to single out. "Um…yeah?"

"Because I feel like…John, this is going to come out very wrong so you need to just let me say things, okay?"

John was beyond confused with where this was leading. "Okay?"

"I feel like you tell Punk – and only Punk – a lot of things that you should be telling me…."

The admission baffled him. "…Do you want me to talk to you more about protein and baseball? Like…cars? Do you want to get into cars? Maybe boats?"

She smiled fondly – the condescending way parents do when they come in to find their kids covered from head to toe in the paint they got into. "That's not even close to what I meant."

"…Hockey?"

She shook her head like she couldn't comprehend was she was doing with him. "Oh my God…"

"I'm sorry! I don't know what you mean!"

Nikki sighed. "Just…finish getting ready and we'll go to the hotel and then…yeah. Text me when you're ready…if you can manage that."

"Hey! That's low!" he called after her, but she just let the door slam shut behind her.

John sighed and collapsed onto the bench. He didn't have any clue where this conversation was going to go, but he wanted to avoid it at all costs. God, it wasn't like this was a big deal. He left her out of the loop with things like this all of the time. He got his things together to leave, before realizing he still didn't have his belt back. He groaned, realizing this might cause a delay Nikki wouldn't appreciate before going off to track it down.

He made sure to text her about it, since she apparently had a hard-on for that type of thing.

It took him twenty minutes and six production assistants to find it, and by then his usual happy-to-see-you personality was long gone and replaced with a rude man he hated, brought on by sheer apprehension.

He texted Nikki, hurried back to his dressing room to grab his bag, and met her at the car. They didn't say a word as they climbed in the back, and for the first time ever, John was not very thankful for the post-match car service because at least if he was driving he could feign sole concentration on the road. But Nikki stayed silent, alternating her focus between staring out the window on the 10-minute ride and checking her phone. Even if he'd wanted to keep talking about it, there was no way he was going to get her involved with the body language she was throwing at him – body facing the door and away from him.

At the hotel, he carried both their bags, as he always did, but he really hoped the chivalry might buy him a pass this time.

Once up in their room, Nikki locked herself in the bathroom.

John sighed. The longer she waited to confront him, the more anxious he got. He wanted her to come charging out now, guns blazing, and get to the point. It really didn't help that he had no idea what she was talking about, no way to anticipate what she was going to say, no way to prepare a defense…. What was even worse was that she hadn't been fuming when she left; she hadn't just chewed him out right then and there.

Dread quickly replaced anxiety.

Nikki came out a bit later: hair up, face washed, pajama-clad. She gave him a small smile, but it didn't reach her eyes.

John sat on the end of the bed, waiting for her to start. He was tense, primed to get up if he had to, to leave so they could both cool off if the situation got too out of hand. She crept over, sinking down next to him, slumping forward as if she had already accepted defeat.

"…What's wrong, Nik? For real, because this isn't you…"

"You really don't see what I see, do you?" She sighed. "You just…sometimes I feel like you don't trust me at all."

"But I do! I trust you! I wouldn't be with you if I didn't trust you, you know that."

Nikki nodded. "I know. But you don't rust me like you trust him."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"John, I get that Punk is your best friend, but you don't talk to me about half the stuff you talk to him about. And I'm sure about what I'm saying because sometimes, when you talk to him and I'm around, you say stuff to him like it's nothing and it's usually the first time I'm hearing about it!" She took a deep breath. "I don't want to get angry about this. I really don't."

"Then don't, Nik." He stood up and crossed the room, taking what she said into consideration, but he really didn't see it the way she did. Punk was open for all his bullshit; he could take the mind-numbing bullshit John thought about and turn it into something tolerable and thinkable. He didn't want to worry Nikki with half the stupid things that went through his mind.

"I'm just trying to tell you that sometimes…sometimes I get really upset about this, okay! You save all the happy, stupid, silly stuff for me! It makes me so angry, so jealous-"

"You're jealous? Of what, Punk?" John laughed. "Seriously? _Punk?_"

"Yes, Punk! God, John, do you think this is easy for me to admit to? I don't get jealous; that's not me! But you seriously keep our entire relationship to all the sweet stuff! You don't share anything with me!"

"What do you want me to share with you?" John was startled by his own raised voice, but carried on. "What, you think I just tell you about all the pretty shit? You want to hear about the other stuff, Nik? Like how all I can ever fucking think about is how the other shoe has got to drop any second now? That-"

"Yes, John! That's what I want to hear!"

"_Don't interrupt me._ Do you even know what I talk about with him most of the time, Nik? I seriously spend all of my time annoying Punk with all the stupid shit I worry about because I worry about _everything_. The last time I got a paper cut I was convinced it would get infected and never heal. Is that the stupid shit you want to hear about? What are you going to do? Coo at me?"

"Oh, fuck you." Nikki got up and got right in his face. "You really think that's how I would react, John? Oh wait! Of course it is! That's the only experience you have with me because the shit you give me to work with warrants that kind of reaction! Maybe if you didn't tell me about mindless, goofy bullshit all the time-"

"I'm trying to protect you!"

"From what, John!"

"Me!"

Nikki backed up like he'd struck her. "What?"

John pondered how best to approach this. "I just…I don't want you to have to deal with my bullshit…"

"I'm here! I obviously want to! Just tell me what you mean!"

"I'm not going to explain this. This argument is stupid."

That wound her back up.

"This argument isn't stupid! We were just getting somewhere! Fuck, John! Why are you closing up like this?"

"Nikki," he warned her, "stop. I don't want to talk about this. I don't want to do this. I just…I need to go." He grabbed his phone from the dresser and started toward the balcony.

He caught the look on Nikki's face and realized that he probably should have just left the phone.

"Oh, that's rich, John! Go call your fucking boyfriend!" She was screaming, tearing up now, and he had to duck to avoid the object – a pillow, it turned out – he saw her chuck at him from the corner of his eye. "Just like you always do!"

That had been his plan.

* * *

Punk went up to bed satisfied with the night, but still a little frustrated.

He wasn't used to having to pry problems out of people. Hell, he'd never even had to ask John if anything was wrong to get his worries to come tumbling out.

But Nick was different, and despite his rather visceral display, he wasn't going to just come out and tell Punk everything that was bothering him.

Punk felt a little put out.

Punk's phone vibrated on the bed and he briefly considered ignoring it because he was exhausted for the first time in a long time. But then he saw John's name and he reconsidered. At least John was forthcoming.

"Hey man, what's up?"

"Fucking women!"

Woah.

To say Punk had not been expecting their conversation to start off like this would probably have been an understatement. The thing was, John rarely talked to Punk about Nikki. Punk suspected John felt it was taboo to do so, since the minute he'd started talking to Punk about Liz, things with Liz had changed and the divorce had started and it had ended up being the messiest couple of months _ever_.

"Women in general, or a specific one?"

"What do you think?"

"I know what I think, I'm just sort of hoping I'm wrong…"

"She's fucking crazy. Why do I attract all the crazies?"

"Nikki isn't crazy John…"

"What, are you saying I'm crazy?" John's tone was gruff.

Punk was taken aback. "No…I never said that. And I don't think that."

"I bet you do. Apparently she thinks I'm in love with you or something, and now you think I'm crazy!"

What the fuck? "Are you drunk? Did Nikki seriously tell you she thinks that?"

"No! But she's jealous of you! Jesus, can't I have just one friend I can talk to, what the fuck did I ever do?"

"You need to calm down and make sense, John."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Why else do you call me?"

He hadn't meant to say it. He really hadn't. And even when he did, he hadn't meant for it to come out the way it did. If he could freeze time like his life was Saved By the Bell and climb through the phone, grabbing at all the words as they tumbled out and push them back through the receiver, back into his mouth, he would have.

John was quiet a long time. "Because we're friends." He was calmer, softer, more guarded.

"I know. I didn't mean that. It came out all wrong."

"Because I trust you, Punk."

"I know. I trust you too."

"You better."

"I do!"

"…You could tell me if you were worried about stuff…"

"I don't worry about anything."

"That's bullshit."

"It's true. Not nearly as much as everyone else."

"Yeah. But you do worry. And you can throw that shit on me the way I throw it on you."

"I know. I just don't." Punk was quiet for a bit. "She really said you were in love with me?"

John laughed. "Fuck, she called you my boyfriend."

"Ew, _why_?"

"We were fighting. She said I tell you everything and I don't tell her anything."

"She has a point."

"I guess…I just don't want her all caught up."

"Dude, if she didn't want to be, she wouldn't be there."

"That's what she said."

"Terrifying that her and I are on the same page, but I guess it proves what a tool you are."

"Shut up, Punk."

"Make me."

John laughed again. "Fuck. She's really angry. And now I'm trapped on the balcony."

"Don't jump."

"Shut up. It's kind of windy out."

Punk ignored him. "You should talk to her."

"Yeah, I should apologize. I was kind of mean."

"No. I mean, the next time you want to call me and tell me you stubbed your toe and you think you got nerve damage in your foot that will end your career, you should tell her. But not one hundred percent of that stuff because then she'll leave your neurotic ass."

"Are you trying to tell me to stop telling you about this stuff?"

"No. Just tell her more."

"She wants to have kids," John blurted out, barely waiting for Punk to finish his statement.

"So do a lot of women."

"With me. Like…soon…I think."

"Oh."

The idea…scared Punk. He could admit that. Not because John wasn't good with kids. (He was like the baby whisperer; it was almost terrifying how one smile and stupid string of words out of this guy's mouth could soothe a baby. It was also pretty gross.) But because he couldn't bear the thought of John being married off again so soon, this time with kids in tow, a family that could fall apart.

Part of him was worried because he didn't want it to end like the last time. But he also felt bad just thinking that another marriage would end like the first one. He felt bad for thinking John hadn't learned his lesson from the last go around. He felt bad thinking John wouldn't fight to stay with the mother of his children if it came down to it.

The other part, the part Punk was pretty sure was drunk with exhaustion, was angry that John would want to cut their bromance (and that was how he knew he was tired, because bromance was a forbidden word around Punk) short to shack up with some woman and have a bunch of kids. If John did that, Punk was pretty sure their friendship wouldn't last. Especially if Punk had to hear drivel about little Johnny's first fucking t-ball game.

That part was completely ridiculous, and Punk almost laughed at even having a part of his self that felt that way.

And another miniscule part of him was screaming that she just wasn't right for him. Which was insane because Nikki was great and fit John perfectly. But there was something he just didn't think was right, something he didn't think was going to work in the long run. He just wasn't sure what.

The thought made him so tired he was done dealing with life for the day.

"John, I hate to do this to you, I have to go. I'm sorry man, but I'm really tired. But you did a good job tonight."

"Oh, yeah, of course. I should go back in…if she hasn't locked me out."

"She didn't."

"I bet she did."

"That's a bet I'm willing to take."

He heard the rush of air and John curse under his breath. "Night, Punk."

"Night, man."

He turned his phone off, mind set on getting more than a couple of hours of sleep.

* * *

The next two weeks flew by.

Nick got better. He even started driving them around himself, and for that, Punk was grateful. He wasn't sure he could leave Nick behind in good faith if he was unable to get around for the next week or so before he went back on the road. But Nick proved he could get around, and Punk was satisfied.

He just hoped Nick was okay with the things that were bothering him. He was more worried leaving him alone without getting the whole story. He just knew there was more. He wasn't sure he could bear the thought of Nick going through another panic attack by himself.

"I'll see you, man." Punk got out of the car at the curb and was surprised when Nick cut the engine and came around to join him. He leaned against it, a nonchalant little smirk on his face.

"So, when am I coming to Chicago for real food?"

Punk laughed. "I don't know, how about we both get back to work first?"

Nick nodded. "Sounds good…I'll miss you, man."

"Ew, don't get sappy on me."

"Hey. You asked me how much sap I could take. This is how much."

"I think you surpassed my own levels with that one, but um…I'll miss you too." The admittance was rushed and he quickly followed up with, "Dinner on me after Payback?"

"You know it. I'm going to lose, so you better buy me pity shots."

Punk rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He stuck his hand out and Nick shook it.

"You know. Since I can't even get a pity fuck out of you."

Punk cringed and pulled his hand away. "Oh, you were so close, Zig. So close, but then you just took it too far.

Nick smirked. "Oh, come on. I haven't earned the right to start up with the vaguely homoerotic star-crossed lovers who can never be comments yet? Fuck, Punk, I made you French toast this morning. What kind of one-sided friendship is this? You just save that shit for Cena?"

"Cena has never made me French toast."

"Wow. Dick move if he's getting the right to joke about snuggling with you."

"I know, right?"

"Whatever man." Nick gave him a side hug that Punk tried half-heartedly to pull away from. "Quit squirming, you love it."

"I don't. You smell like Axe."

"Oh, fuck that. This is Emporio Armani. I would never lower myself to that level."

Punk got away. "Bye Nick! You smell like a chick!"

Ziggler went back around to the driver's side of his car. "Later!"

Punk headed inside to check in for his flight.

* * *

AN: Romanesco broccoli/cauliflower is real and it's awesome and it's a real life fractal. Beautiful looking vegetable. I have no clue what I made Punk cook, I just typed what sounded nice in my head. Dixie Carter is president of TNA.

Anyway. Next chapter has a bunch of characters coming face to face for the first time in this story! Yay for variety!


	6. Six

Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

AN: Thanks again to Annalore (who tried the whole pizza thing again – she's actually more dedicated to the deep dish subplot in this story than I am, and I love it), InYourHonour, and stellamarie27 for reviews on the last chapter! And to everyone who followed and favorited. As the Bellas would say, besos!

I warn you in advance, this chapter gave me quite the fight. I hope it doesn't reflect here, but if it does, I apologize.

Chapter Warnings: Big old Dolph/AJ/Big E reunion. What's the Word. Ribbing on Dolph for hanging out with Punk. Hand smut. Amy and Punk watch television. Sushi stealing. Wolverine. Jittery Dolph. Sassy AJ. Suave Big E. Galaga. Snowballing…but not that kind of snowballing. Toucan Sam. John hates Punk, he really does, that asshole.

* * *

A house show in Tennessee wasn't exactly where Nick wanted to make his not-so-triumphant return, but at least he's getting a taped segment for his television return on SmackDown the same night, so he's kind of all right with it.

His flight arrives before April and E's, so he sits in the airport waiting for them so they can drive three hours from Charlotte to Johnson City because heaven forbid they go anywhere with an actual airport.

Okay, so he's not in the greatest mood, but he's really trying to turn it around before they get there so he isn't mean to the two people in his life who constantly mean well.

He chills at arrivals, hat pulled low over his eyes, Chuck Palahniuk novel in hand, but he's not focusing as he scans pages, constantly checking the arrivals board for their flight from Tampa. And when it flips over to landed, he feels like he's about to fly out of his seat (though on the outside, he still looks totally unaffected by everything around him because that's what he does).

If he knows April, she's going to wait for old ladies with walkers to get off that plane before her, smile on her face encouraging them up the aisle. E could sleep through a twenty-one gun salute, so he's still probably snoring next to her, and April will get all angry that he isn't immediately a ball of sunshine when she shakes him back to consciousness once a flight attendant says they absolutely have to get off the plane. E will give her one of those looks that says he's only tolerating her because she's adorable and stumble off the plane somewhere just shy of two-thirds awake.

He's witnessed occurrences like these so many times that he knows without a shadow of a doubt it's going to happen again, and he loves both of them for it.

A full half hour later, April and E come into view and he does fly out of his chair.

"Can I never get concussed again?"

April's face lights up like she's spotted Wonder Woman and she scurries over and hugs him and she's totally pressed against his front and his face is in her hair and _Jesus_ and he lifts her off the tile without trying.

"Well, I'm going to make you promise not to because keeping this woman on the straight and narrow on the road has been impossible without you."

Nick smiles at E from over April's shoulder and she groans and pulls away when Nick sets her back down. "Shut up, E. I was in bed earlier than you every night, don't even start."

Nick's chest swells with fondness. "Awe see, you guys needed me. I'm the glue that holds this group together."

"Well, actually we got a lot accomplished without you." April looks smug as she says it and Nick wants to…he isn't going to finish that thought in the middle of an airport.

"I'm sure you did. Except not."

"We did," E assured him. "We finally figured out that What's the Word we've been stuck on for months."

"You didn't!"

April nodded proudly. "We did. It was stalk."

Nick sort of regrets missing the reveal. "That makes total sense. Now, of course. Five weeks ago that never would have crossed my mind."

"It took three six packs to crack it."

He shrugged. "Figures."

April smiled and hugged him again. He wound his arm around her waist to squeeze her close. E clapped his shoulder – _ow_ – and that was enough between them.

"Let's go, I need to get out of this airport." He had to take a second to consider how to untangle himself from April, but he managed.

They joined him at his previous camp-out spot, where he gathered up all his things. They got their rental car and got out on the road, E insisting on taking the back so he could stretch out to pass out again, and April in shotgun because "Oh, hell no, little lady, you drive us and we're going to end up in the ocean!"

The drive from Charlotte to Johnson City was the same three hours whether or not they took the 40-mile shortcut on state routes. E immediately told them he didn't give two fucks if it saved a gallon of gas going that way, they better take the interstate: "I'm a luscious black man and this is the south. If we break down somewhere…"

April screamed for him to stop and Nick took the interstate.

April quickly caught Nick up on all the locker room gossip, and despite his eyes being closed every time Nick peeked at him in the rearview mirror, E threw in an anecdote or two of elaboration every couple of minutes.

Once they were all caught up, April broke the ice. "Soooooooo…."

Nick glanced at her from the corner of his vision and could see she was nearly bursting with whatever she wanted to ask him. "So?"

"Are you and Punk secret lovers? I could totally see that happening. Punkler. Or like…Donk."

"I vote for Donk," E threw in.

"Ew. You wish, April." Nick kind of knew she really did. She was odd like that.

"I kind of do. I could be all over that."

Nick shook his head. "Well, first, thank you for objectifying my non-existent same sex love affair. I will cherish this memory forever. Second, if I was in an _existent _same sex love affair, you would not be included."

"Ah. So you admit it's a love affair and not just strings free sex?"

"Have you been on tumblr again?"

"Duh," April blurted. "I got that picture of you two at the store from there, genius!"

E groaned. "She spends pretty much all her time on there. She runs a Shield blog now. It's called Believe in the Hair. It's dedicated to their hair, in case you couldn't deduce that from the wonderfully clever title."

April glared over her shoulder. "Thanks for selling me out!" She turned back to Nick. "I showed them and they approved."

"She texted them links and Colby's response was 'Who is this?'"

Nick laughed, shaking his head. "You're both lying."

"We are. We came up with this story on the plane. But it sounds like me, doesn't it?" April's smile could have made Nick agree to sell his liver as long as she kept looking at him like that.

"Sure does, babe." He ruffled her hair and she squealed while batting his hand away.

One particularly good strike left Nick yelping in pain, shaking his forearm out to relieve the sting.

April smirked. "No, but really. I bet Punk sleeps hanging from the rafters like a bat."

"Well, my house doesn't have any rafters, so he just stuck to the bed like a normal person."

"Did you have fun though?"

Nick nodded. "Yeah. As much fun as I could have with a concussion, it wasn't like we went to Castles 'n Coasters and rode upside down or anything."

"I didn't think that. He can be grumpy though."

"I know."

"He means well."

"I know that too."

"I kissed him."

"Are you going to brag about that forever?"

"Yup."

"Figures, ya fan girl."

"Best in the world!"

Nick rolled his eyes, but April looked satisfied with herself and that was enough.

They rode in silence for a while, E's initial grunt of a snore startling both wrestlers in the front. They shared a quiet laugh over it once Nick got the car back in their lane.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye again and she was staring now. "What?"

"I missed you," she told him, all humor gone from her voice.

"I missed you too."

"Please don't get hurt again."

He looked away from the road to meet her eye for a moment and the look there – the earnestness, the care – made him feel leaden, like he was too heavy, too full to ever find the will to look away. "I won't."

"Promise?"

He nearly had to force his lids to blink. He nodded.

She nodded in return, dropping her eyes. He looked back at the road, and felt her small hand wrapped around his on his lap.

And as he glanced down at their joined hands, she squeezed, her delicate knuckles going white. All his blood pooled low in his belly.

* * *

Punk sat on his couch, impatiently awaiting the landing text from Amy that meant he could come pick her up at O'Hare.

She hadn't wanted to cut his fun with Nick short when she got back from the Middle East, instead making headway on a backlog of work. She'd had to record radio shows in advance so she could go do a few gigs with Luchagore, and now she finally had 60 hours free to come see him. He felt like a dick taking her 60 hours when she could be resting. But he was a selfish prick, and he would take them anyway.

She'd already wasted 2 of them flying up to see him. May as well waste the other 58.

His phone vibrated as he retied his shoe for the third time.

Amy  
_The eagle has landed_

He grabbed his keys and headed out, arriving there after almost mowing down a flash mob that broke out in Logan Square. People and their fucking Black Eyed Peas.

Amy was already outside, earbuds still firmly in place when he pulled up.

"Hey." She was pulling her earbuds out, opening the back passenger door to throw her bags in. He made his way around to her side and gave her a long overdue hug, squeezing her just enough to get a soft laugh out of her. "Thanks for the welcome."

"Missed you."

"I missed you too."

"You smell weird."

"A small child thought it would be cute to spill juice down my back and reaffirmed my want of a childless life."

"They tend to do that."

She pulled back and smiled and kissed him quickly before getting into the passenger's seat. Punk got back in and soon they were idling in midday Saturday traffic, catching up on things they hadn't already. Amy showed him a few pictures from her trip, and he showed her a few from Phoenix.

It was good and comfortable and Punk was once again pleased that they were back together.

At home, Amy changed out of her juice-stickied top and then joined him on the couch so they could finally start watching The Bates Motel after Punk had DVR'd the entire season. He pulled her in close, and she lay against his side, head on his chest. He wrapped one hand around her back and ran the other through her tangles, working them out with gentle pulls. By the time he was finished, his shirt bore several long red hairs, but he liked them there. Their presence felt routine.

They got through five episodes before calling out for sushi.

Despite opting to order vegetable rolls, Punk kept trying to steal pieces of Amy's rainbow roll and earned several stabs in the palm with chopsticks for his trouble.

"You're really failing at getting back on track, you know that?"

"I know! But I've had so much dairy at this point, fish is the next logical step."

She laughed and moved her plate closer to him. "There's always tomorrow, right?"

He scooped half his food onto her plate as penance before going to work on her rolls.

"When were you eating dairy? You don't even have any here…"

"In Phoenix. I had pizza and cheesy potatoes far too often. I don't know how you people do it. I've already gained 4 pounds."

"Can't keep up with the young guns anymore, huh?"

He threw a rogue grain of rice at her. "Shut up."

"Being perpetually grumpy and depressed about how you can't eat my won tons will prematurely age you."

"Hey, I've never gotten depressed over that. Just a little mopey."

She scoffed. "You just willingly described yourself as mopey. What's happened to you, Grumpelstilskin?"

"Grumpelstilskin? Seriously?" Punk polished off what was left on their plates and brought them to the sink. He made his way to Amy's side of the counter and smirked. "I can show you grumpy if you want, lady. I'm not sure you're going to think it's as cute as you're making it out to be."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, okay. I'm quaking in my boots over here, trust me."

His tickles had her off her stool and laughing across the living room before he even had time to respond. He chased her through the house, occasionally catching her and receiving shots to the back whenever she could squirm away quick enough for him to miss pinning her arms to her sides.

The assault finally ended in his bed when she wrapped her teeth around his earlobe and tugged and he gave up on touching her for laughs. Her teeth grazed down his jaw and his hands slipped up her shirt, across her stomach, his thumbs pressing into her skin when her bite sent a little shiver down his neck.

"Miss me?" She kissed him quick and ran her fingertips over freshly trimmed mutton chops.

"I did."

"This Wolverine thing is far sexier than it should be."

"Wolverine is a sexy motherfucker."

"You're a sexy motherfucker."

"Oh, Amy. Don't make me blush."

"Can't make you blush if I can't talk."

"Good point." He kissed her and was happy she'd come to see him.

* * *

Nick sat backstage at Raw and wanted to bum rush the stage in the middle of _any_ of these segments and just do cartwheels or flips or something down the ramp. He was jazzed enough to rediscover Nicky and whip him out just for this occasion. Fuck, if Vince McMahon had some golf clubs stashed in his office, he'd carry those out too as long as he got to beat someone with them.

He'd already held it together long enough to go out there with E and April and get hit in the head by Alberto, so he figured he could manage to wait until that week's SmackDown taping tomorrow night to get in the ring. He wished he could fast forward to that point right now, but this wasn't a terrible Adam Sandler movie, so he would have to handle the anticipation as best he could.

Plus he didn't really want to deal with the fine he would get if he went out and broke script.

The house shows that weekend had gone well. He hadn't fought, but he'd been out at ringside with April for E's matches and that had felt nice. He'd gotten bigger pops than he normally did, especially in non-smarky crowds. People acted like that was some big surprise, but all Nick had to do was look on tumblr for half a second to know it should be expected.

And the crowds had been more than happy to pop for him tonight – or technically E, but he was included in that – and he saw a handful more teal and pink shirts than before he'd gone. They were all good signs. Good, making him antsy, signs.

And now he was fidgeting around in a hallway while April watched him, smiling like he was a toddler riding the family cat around for YouTube.

"Don't look at me like that."

"You're being adorable. I can't look away. It's like that duckling swimming in the sink."

"No it isn't. I'm just…ugh! I want to be out there."

She laughed. "You're ridiculous." She patted the crate next to her. "Come sit."

He did, but kept kicking his legs.

"Jesus, you're a wreck."

"I'm bored."

April tutted. "Wow, thanks for complimenting my companionship. Super appreciative right here."

"Hey, you aren't entertaining me. Any and all insults to your ability to keep me company are totally valid."

"If you want to be entertained, head back to the hotel."

Nick smirked at her. "Babe, don't make promises like that when you've still got entertaining to do out there."

She shook her head, not quite ready to slip into AJ yet. "Me kicking your ass would be pretty entertaining too."

"Oh God, _yes_. It would be."

She smacked him in the chest. "Perv."

"Oh, come on. You love it."

"Do not."

"You do. It's your favorite thing. You love riling me up."

She laughed at his insistence, smacking him again, but when he caught her eye he could see the admittance there, so he quickly killed that line of badgering. She looked away, but side hugged him, and he tucked her in under his chin. God, she was tiny and she fit right in there and…

His phone vibrated.

Punk  
_April told me to tell you to stop fidgeting.  
_Punk (2)  
_So stop fidgeting._

He lightly shoved her away. "You texted Punk? Traitor."

She laughed and shoved him back. "Hey, you weren't listening to me! It seemed like a logical decision."

"He isn't my mom."

"He might as well be. I swear he texted you yesterday to ask if you had eaten, and don't even deny it. No matter how quickly you grabbed the phone away, that's what it said!"

"Because he was recommending a gross vegan place for me to go to. Taking everything out of context like usual, April."

"Oh, but see! He's worried about your animal product consumption. That's cute!"

"You're getting out of hand. I'm going to have to start putting you on blast."

"On blast? Really? Who are you? Where did you come from?"

"Hollywood, Florida. Duh."

"Incorrigible."

"That sums me up. Can't get enough of my swaggle muffin!"

April gagged. "I feel like that's what Justin Bieber calls Selena Gomez."

"It fits. We're the Jelena of the WWE."

"Ugh, so not in the mood to deal with you."

"Awe, babe. Why can't we play?"

"Nick, quit being weird."

He pouted. "But, babe. You like it weird. Remember that time with the air horn and the shoelace-"

She laughed. "I can't even make up something creepy enough for that description to fit."

"Exactly." Riling April up calmed his nerves and he relaxed against the wall. He texted Punk: _not fidgeting, just moving_

Punk  
_Just stay still_

Nick rolled his eyes: _shut up._

E came round the corner in his dress clothes and Nick wolf whistled. "Looking good!"

April fanned herself. "Jesus, I might just have to dump this one!"

E smiled proudly and spun for them. "I know I look good. You don't have to tell me."

He Tyra Banks-walked down the hall and April and Nick had to lean against each other while they laughed to keep from falling from their perches.

April eventually calmed down and hopped off her crate. "We'll be back soon. Don't reinjure yourself with your fidgeting."

"Ugh, fuck off. I'm perfectly capable of remaining unconcussed."

"Somehow I doubt that."

"I'm all right so far, aren't I?"

"Whatever, Zigglypuff!"

They made their way down the hall and Nick opened his Galaga app.

He shot at little buggy spaceshippy things (he was never entirely sure what they were) like it was his life's purpose, when he heard laughter and people walking closer to him. He vaguely registered a couple of the production crew hurrying by him, ignoring them in the fight to keep his starfighter alive.

The scuff of sneakers halting startled him, and when he looked up and met Cena's eyes, his sinking stomach and suddenly rigid hands were punctuated by the sound of his starfighter getting hit and losing its last life.

They stared at each other for a while before John jutted his chin in recognition and Nick did the same. "Hey."

"Hey."

Nick felt like he should say something more. Like he should try and break the ice. Cena was standing there, unmoving, like he thought the same. Nick suddenly felt very pressured to do something, and found himself speechless for the first time.

So he laughed, but it was a choked, mangled sound and he was reminded of Andy Samberg as Shy Ronnie in those SNL skits with Rihanna.

To say he regretted it would be an understatement.

John gave him the most confused look Nick had ever seen from him – which was saying a lot, in his opinion – before his face went blank and then he looked angry. Nick stopped laughing with a sudden gasp and his eyes widened and _wow he was a fucking loser_.

John looked off down the hall and started like he might go, then didn't. Nick could read that body language: _over it_. He glanced back at Nick. "Head good?"

Of course he would ask after _that_ noise. Cena probably thought he was brain damaged at this point. Or just really fucking stupid, which would have been correct.

Nick just nodded. "Yep. It's great."

"Take my advice?"

"Um…" Nick struggled to remember the exact content of their shopping cart conversation past memories of his headache and (possibly) irrational anger over insinuations that Nick might turn Punk into a junkie. Something about not exacerbating it? "Yeah. I did."

John nodded and kept nodding and Nick had to focus on a point on the man's chest to make it seem like he was still paying attention because this was just weird.

"Ankle good?"

Nick swore if Cena didn't stop nodding he was going to reach out and still his head himself.

"Yeah. It's been fine for weeks. Just needed some TLC."

"Well, TLC would have probably been _worse_ for it…" There. That was so much better and more like himself than any of the ridiculous shit he'd done so far in this exchange.

John gave him a questioning look before the tension on his face broke and he chuckled. "Right."

Nick breathed a sigh of relief.

Suddenly, April and E came barreling down the hall laughing and when they saw Nick and John, they came to a silent halt and stared.

It was the tensest moment in Nick's recent memory.

"Hey John!" April smiled and sat back down in her previous spot, putting herself right between John and where Nick sat, and Nick decided then and there he needed to give this girl the world in appreciation.

Nick was pleased to see John had the same soft spot for his on-screen girlfriend that the rest of the world did. "Hey April. Title Sunday?"

April gave him her small scheming AJ smile. "We'll see."

"All right, I'll be watching." John started down the hall, giving E a nice bro-shake and complimenting his shirt ("It's a blouse, dude, but thanks for the love") before heading off to close out the show.

Once his knuckles relaxed, the sound of Nick's phone clattering to the ground broke the silence between the three.

April seemed to shake herself back to reality. "Well, that was…awkward."

"Jesus Fuck, thank God you two came. It was worse before that."

"I don't know if I believe that."

"Oh, it was."

"Well, this is a problem I have no desire to listen to. I'll see you two at the car." E went off to strip out of his fine shirt from the Cosby Couture collection. Traitor.

April turned to him, suddenly serious and awestruck. "What the fuck happened?"

"I can't even explain. I insinuated his love of Punk's penis and…it just snowballed from there."

April stared. "I can't get past the mental image that hearing penis and snowballed in the same sentence caused…"

"Shut up, April."

She pouted and whipped out her phone, ignoring him. He felt bad. He knew she got a little uncomfortable after doing terrible AJ things, and she'd just been a bit roughed up by Celeste. He could have asked her how it went since he hadn't bothered to head to the monitor bay to catch the reveal. But he'd been too busy making zoo animal noises at John _fucking _Cena to do that much for his friend.

He let her ignore him.

He hadn't realized his heart rate had sped up until now, when it was coming back down. Confrontation was great when it was scripted, but he honestly hated it in real life situations. He avoided it as much as possible, even if he was a hot head at times. He wasn't a fan of the unpredictability. Not when you could get punched in the face. Or concussed. And even scripted confrontation sometimes lead to that.

He was thankful they'd both been so weird just now. If Cena had been too friendly or even the slightest bit cocky, Nick probably would have lost it. He wouldn't have acted on it, but he probably would have suffered an aneurysm, and he was pretty sure that would set his concussion recovery back a week or two or something like that. No biggie. But he didn't feel like staying out of the ring that much longer. He had less than twenty-four hours to go now, and John Cena wasn't going to ruin that.

Even if John Cena had no clue he was ruining it. Fuck, Nick was turning into a creepy bastard with vendettas against people who didn't even know they were doing things to get him angry. Real fucking mature on his part, he was like a fucking sorority pledge hating on the vice president over here.

He needed to get to bed because this day had just been nothing but anxious need and weird fucking occurrences.

He hopped up and took April's phone despite her protests. "Let's go get E, I want to go back."

"You can't just take my phone."

"I can, and I did." He hugged her. "You're not mean," he reassured her.

She sighed and squeezed him back. "I know. It's fun and fake, but I still feel like it's me doing it."

"I know."

"It's not exactly a positive thing for kids to see, you know? Mixed messages and what not."

"I know. It's not like you're making some groundbreaking discovery about company hypocrisy. Besides, everyone loves you anyway so it doesn't matter if you're a bully."

April smiled and pulled away. "I'm getting a kids' shirt."

"See! Sell them shirts and body shaming. It's the WWE way."

"Isn't it though?" She slid off her crate and stole her phone back. "Let's go."

And they did.

* * *

John dialed Punk and only had to wait two rings before his friend answered.

"Hola, Juan."

"I think your boy Ziggler just squawked at me."

There was silence from Punk's end, and John thought the call had dropped. "Punk?"

"I'm still processing that. Give me a moment."

"Okay…"

"Is squawking some new slang I'm not aware of? I just got the hang of 'shade' and 'swerve' is still puzzling…"

"No. Like, legitimate bird noise. I don't know what the fuck his deal is…"

"He doesn't have a deal, John."

"He has a deal. I can tell. I think he might kill me in his sleep. He gets the crazy eyes."

"John, he wasn't trying to offend you or your ancestors or whatever you're implying. And I sincerely doubt he's trying to kill you. He scoops gnats up between cups and sheets of paper and releases them back into the wild. He's just…no I can't even come up with an excuse. He's a weird fuck, but a good guy." John wanted to protest but Punk continued. "Do me a favor?"

"Yeah, okay…"

"Can you make the noise for me? It'll help me figure out his intentions."

"Yeah. Something like that shit stands out. It was like a," John tried to make the noise. He put a little bit of a T-Rex arm movement into it just to force it out.

"Mhm…can you do it again? I feel like I recognize it."

"Yeah." He repeated the noise, a little louder this time, curving his upper back to push out his spine. He was pretty sure he looked like a chicken. A passing PA gave him a weird look, but he just smiled and she beamed back before tripping over a cord. John lunged to help her, but she quickly untangled herself and scurried off, red faced.

"Yeah, I'm not getting it. One more time?"

John made the noise…"Wait. Are you fucking with me?"

"No. I recognized it. It's the sound of you being a gullible tool."

"Ugh. You know what man, fuck you!"

Punk laughed. "You're such an easy target. I can't believe you made it this far in life without being swindled out of your fortune or something."

"Shut up. You're an asshole."

"Says the guy who just made Toucan Sam noises in public."

"I'm going now. I'm sure I can find people who appreciate me more than you do. Go have phone sex with your boy, Ziggler. Fucking douchebags."

"Oh, John. I love you too."

"I'll text you. Pain in my fucking ass." He hung up as Punk laughed once more, and stalked off, ready to head out to the ring.

Fucking Punk and his fucking stupid pranks and why was he friends with this asshole again?

John knew Punk would tell him, "It's because you love me and I'm the best friend you've ever had." And Punk would have been right.

* * *

AN: This chapter gave me so much trouble! I'm also actually pretty sure it's the shortest chapter since the first one too. I'm sorry if this let anyone down, but it's a bridge for the transition this story is about to go through. I'm so excited to write the next chapter! Because in the next chapter, it's Payback! And we all know what happens at Payback, don't we?

Any and all feedback is appreciated more than you know.


	7. Seven

Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

AN: Thank you again to my ever-lovely reviewers, followers, and favoriters. You all rock! I apologize way in advance for how long this took (I really try and update twice a week, and this took two weeks). Most of that is due to anxiety about how this turned out because I think it's sort of an important chapter where a lot happens (or doesn't?) and it's very long. The holiday on the fourth, a surprisingly busy real life, my best friend coming home from being stationed in Turkey, and then terrible anxiety about getting tickets to Money In The Bank…which I attended (and goodness, it was great) all added to the delay. But I finally feel really good about this chapter!

Annalore has written a John/Punk high school AU one-shot called Escape that I cannot recommend to you highly enough. You're probably thinking "high school AU? No way. Not happening" but trust me on this. It's more adolescent AU than anything it's just so poignant and sad and sweet. It's great. I'm trying to get her to write a sequel. You should try to. (And in all the time it took me to finish this chapter, she also wrote a quick Punk/John post-MITB one shot that is also incredible called Safe.)

There's section in this chapter is written a little differently than all the sections so far in this story, and that's because (spoiler!) it's the first section all three guys have been in at the same time! So if you're like, whoa, the POV changed a little, don't let it throw you off – it's supposed to come off weird.

Chapter Warnings: Reunions! Feels! Wrestling! Denny's! Smut! Wait, what? Smut? Isn't this slow build?

* * *

Nine weeks.

It had been nine weeks since Punk had been here. It had been exactly ten weeks since he fought at WrestleMania. He wasn't sure which was crazier – what he'd been doing when he left this behind or leaving it behind at all.

He'd been keeping his mind off of this, thinking of anything but coming here today to keep him from the frenzied feeling he knew was lingering just under the surface.

He spent Saturday afternoon in the gym, texting Chris from the treadmill to make sure they had everything down. He had swung downtown and picked up his sick – and he meant _sick _– new ring gear. He had spent the night occupied with Game 2, and even if the 'Hawks let him down in overtime, 1-1 wasn't a horrible record this early in the finals. They were going to win. He could feel it.

He wound down for the night and stared at the ceiling for an indeterminate amount of time, all the while wondering if it would all feel the same when he went out to that ring the next night.

He slipped into the empty staging area, where the monitors were already on, showing the silent arena and the stage crew working to set up the padded barricade at ringside. He took a minute to flip up his hood, close his eyes, and breathe in the way he did before he went out there to bring down the house. He opened his eyes, feeling clearer than he had in so long, and stepped up the stairs, coming out from behind the darkened TitanTron and out onto the stage, only lit by the house lights. He stepped to the head of the ramp, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, and let his eyes fall closed again.

It was like nothing had ever changed.

"You were really going to leave all this behind?"

Punk turned, reverie broken, and there John was in all his dumb, grinning glory. John offered him his hand, but Punk rolled his eyes and hugged his friend instead. John returned it, patting Punk's back hard enough to shake the impact through his chest.

"No way. Never."

"Good."

Punk pulled back. "I plan on being the one to retire you someday. Have to outlast the champ."

John scoffed. "I'd like to see you try."

"Well, I don't plan on having to _try_."

"Hey now. You've been back about 15 minutes, you need to relax that shit."

"I've been saving it up."

John draped his arm over Punk's shoulders. "Then spend it. Let's get your antisocial ass to the green room and you can sass all of them."

"Fuck, do I have to?"

"Yes. You do."

"Oh man," he groaned, "Fine. Whatever."

"Let's go."

John took him back to the green room, and Punk was greeted like his life was an episode of Cheers. Most of his friends – and even some people he wasn't particularly fond of, but could tolerate in small doses – came up to shake his hand, clap him on the shoulder, and welcome him back. Kofi wasn't there, which made Punk a little sad, but the man deserved the time to heal and get to know his son before he was back out on the road with these hooligans again. John's phone rang and Punk shooed him off to go answer it.

Punk spotted Nick sitting off on his own, scrolling through his phone. When he met Punk's eye, he smiled, and Punk gestured that he would be right over. He managed his way through a few more minutes of his royal reception, and got over to Nick.

"Hey man." They shook hands and Punk sunk down in the chair next to him. "How are you?"

"Pretty good. Excited to be back?"

Pun's smile pulled his lips wide enough that he though his mouth might tear in half. "That's a bit of an understatement."

"Really?"

Punk nodded. "Yeah. I don't think I've ever been this excited about any of this…"

"That's awesome man."

Punk watched Nick for a second and caught himself before frowning. Nick didn't look particularly happy to be where he was, like a few more pounds of force on his shoulders would be more than he could handle. "You dropping tonight?"

Nick nodded. "Yep."

"Sucks man."

"Turn too."

Punk was taken aback. "…I didn't really see that coming."

"Me neither. It is what it is. Going to go get my head bashed in for 10 minutes and leave with nothing. So much risk..."

"So little reward," Punk finished.

"_No_ reward."

Punk frowned. "It'll work out you know. Crowd likes you."

"Crowds like a lot of people. Doesn't mean shit, we both know that." Nick raked his hand over his face. "I'm sorry, man. I'm raining on your parade, you need to get away from me tonight." He laughed a little, but the sound set Punk ill at ease. "I'm happiness poison right now. That's why I'm camped out in here."

Punk knew Nick just wanted to be alone. He got that. And as long as the man was calm, he would leave him be. He'd have to keep a close eye on him though, just in case he got…not so calm. Punk stood, clapping Nick fondly on the shoulder, and went off to find John and some food.

John was waiting in catering, and he discreetly slipped Punk a Diet Pepsi. "One won't kill you."

"I really shouldn't."

John shrugged. " Fuck it, you'll be fine. How was it?"

"Oh. It was like the second coming of Christ. All of you are obsessed."

"Oh, we definitely are. It's hard not to be with you running around now, looking like Hugh Jackman."

"Hey," Punk punctuated the word by sticking his pointing finger in John's face to make his point. "Hugh Jackman is a beautiful man, I take that as a compliment."

John swatted his hand away. "Oh, I meant it that way." Punk stared John down, and John threw his hands up in surrender. "Hugh Jackman is my man crush, dude! I was following him around like a puppy when he was here."

"Please never say 'man crush' again."

"Awe, are you jealous mine isn't on you?"

"Why should I be? Mine is on Hugh, too."

John laughed. "We both have commendable taste."

"We really do."

* * *

Nick woke up in Chicago in a pretty sour mood.

He'd pulled on his big boy pants for breakfast with some of the roster, including April who was over the moon with how her night was set to end. He refused to fuck this day up for her; she deserved this, and his terrible mood would be the last thing to bring her down if he had his way.

He moved through the day bouncing back and forth between wanting to go find a private place to cry and ripping a door off its hinges to beat the nearest person with it.

The very first time April asked if he was okay, if he needed anything, he mustered up the brightest smile he could, hugging her and telling her how proud he was. He refused to lie to her, and she deserved to keep having a great day, so saying he was fine was not an option. He left her with Celeste so that he could take his raincloud elsewhere, and made his way to the green room to hide in plain sight. If anyone found him off on his own, moping in some hallway full of equipment, they would never leave him be. But moping here was a sure way to guarantee no one would bug him about his pout.

Yes, he was pouting, he could admit it.

Tonight was going to be frustrating. It didn't matter if he was making a face turn, coming out of the match the hero despite his loss. A loss was a loss, and losing the title now could mean trouble in the long run – even if more than a few people has assured him otherwise.

He wasn't being some big baby – at least he liked to think he wasn't. He was just so frustrated and so anxious and so _worried_. Worried about spots going awry and being out for weeks again, maybe months this time, maybe forever. He worried about this being the end of the road, even with the promise of a good summer ahead of him. He worried about his brother.

Worrying sucked.

And worrying just pissed him off. He was on the edge; he was so close to never having to feel this way again. He just needed that last big push to get over the top and he just knew he'd feel so much better. And just because it seemed like it was coming, didn't mean it was. Because this business was full of a bunch of liars and he knew better than anyone now that everything they said to his face needed to be taken with a grain of salt.

Their assurances meant nothing to him anymore.

It was now, tonight, that might get him stuck spending the rest of his career collecting paychecks without a match until he was quietly released a few years down the road. He couldn't let that happen. And as hard as it was going to be, he was going to fight to make sure it didn't. He wasn't going to let the past decade go to waste. Because really, who got this close to achieving their childhood dream and then just willingly let it all go?

The atmosphere suddenly became much more excited, and when he looked up from his phone, Punk was at the door. The entire room seemed to migrate Punk's way. Everyone from Punk's friends to people Nick knew Punk wanted to send pistols accompanied by 'kill yourself' notes swarmed their returned Second City Saint.

He watched for a moment and realized that whatever feeling this was he was having, Punk was feeling the polar opposite.

The man was all smiles, bright eyes, radiating joy. He looked so electric, like if Nick went over and just touched him he would be vibrating with all this energy. He looked like he might burst if anything added to his glee. He looked the way someone returning to the best thing in their life should.

He looked right.

Nick knew he was staring. He couldn't help it. He wanted that so bad. That feeling. He'd had it enough times before – fuck, Raw after 'Mania, anyone? – to know exactly how it felt to be inside Punk's skin right now. He'd give anything to feel that way. It was overwhelming.

He could feel legitimate tears welling up, the frantic zing of panic starting up in his chest, and he tore his eyes away, looked back at his phone, and numbly scrolled through his mentions on twitter to distract himself.

It made him feel good that so many people were so sure he was going to win. It made sense, right? That the guy they let keep the title for a month when he wasn't on tv was obviously going to retain tonight. Because that made sense. It was logical; it was formulaic.

The hate tweets were laughable, and almost put Nick in a better mood.

He looked up again and Punk looked right at him. He couldn't help but smile at the man who had just spent weeks by his side while he recovered. Because that man looked like a totally different beast tonight, all happy and confident, beaming at even the most annoying assholes that greeted him. Punk signaled that he'd be over to see him, and Nick watched as he got through the last few people welcoming him back, being uncharacteristically polite in his fantastic mood.

Suddenly, Punk was in front of him, shaking his hand, and Nick almost wanted to jump up hug him and tell him that he looked like he should never take a break again and that Nick would like to spend every moment near him so he could feel that way too. But he stayed firmly planted in his chair, hoping he could make it through this exchange without taking his anger out on this ecstatic man.

"Hey man, how are you?" Punk sat next to Nick

"Pretty good," he lied. Punk accepted that, and Nick was a little more thankful for his friend. "Excited to be back?"

A grin the likes of which Nick had never seen crossed Punk's face and Nick wanted to cry. He hated this feeling. He hated how jealous he was of someone who deserved this. "That's a bit of an understatement," Punk told him.

"Really?"

Punk nodded. "Yeah. I don't think I've ever been this excited about any of this…"

"That's awesome." It really was. Nick was so happy for him, under it all. He hated that his happiness for Punk had suddenly compounded itself on top of all his other negative feelings, weighing him further down. Like being happy for someone else was cause for misery.

God, Nick just hated himself right now.

"You dropping tonight?"

Nick nodded and hoped the defeat he was feeling wasn't showing. "Yep."

"Sucks man."

"Turn too."

Punk looked about as shocked as Nick had when he'd found out. "…I didn't really see that coming."

"Me neither. It is what it is. Going to go get my head bashed in for 10 minutes and leave with nothing. So much risk..."

"So little reward."

"_No_ reward," Nick shot back without thinking. Nick didn't care how whiny that sounded. He wasn't going to front for Punk. Punk had seen him hyperventilating and slobbering on the floor over this shit – _fuck_, he'd held him while he did it – so he was going to get the nitty-gritty now too.

But the look on Punk's face still made Nick want to smack himself. He studied him like he could see every stupid doubt he had written all across his face. Nick tensed up to keep from fidgeting, from getting up and bolting.

"It'll work out you know. Crowd likes you."

"Crowds like a lot of people. Doesn't mean shit, we both know that." He thought he might cry for a minute, just burst into tears, and he brought his hand up to cover his face. It passed, and he tried to pass it off – he needed to pass this entire conversation off. "I'm sorry, man. I'm raining on your parade, you need to get away from me tonight." He forced a laugh that hurt squeezing from his chest. "I'm happiness poison right now. That's why I'm camped out in here."

Punk stood and clapped Nick on the shoulder without saying a word. He was so thankful Punk didn't question him – he had no clue what he would have said if this got real. But he wished he could have left his hand there, squeezed him, gave him every bit of comfort he could. But Nick had no clue how to ask for that. So he let Punk leave.

He wished he'd made him stay though, just for the closeness of having him sit beside him in a room full of people.

* * *

John found himself sitting in Punk's dressing room watching Ziggler's match despite his aversion to the whole situation – or more specifically, Ziggler in general.

He'd come to check on Punk before his own match with Jericho and found him stretching on the floor, eyes glued to the monitor.

"Punk-"

Punk shushed him. "Sit. Be quiet."

John stared at him for a second and rolled his eyes, but sat on the couch anyway. "I'm offended because I feel like you don't tell people to be quiet during my matches."

"Because I don't even watch them."

He snorted. "That hurts, Punk. My heart is breaking."

"You've got enough heart to go around."

Despite the fact that he was kidding, Punk was quiet, and John didn't want to push him…too much. He watched as Punk pulled himself into a split and laid his entire torso flat on the ground, eyes never leaving the screen. It was… "Your dedication to this is insane."

"He's getting his head kicked in. Don't mind me if I'm a little worried."

"I'm not minding you!"

"Then stop talking about it!"

"Well, I did come here to _talk_ to you but you shushed me and-"

"Shhhhhhh." The shit-eating grin Punk threw his way made John kick him in the ass. Punk glared, but John played dumb, zipping his lips and throwing away the key. "You're a dick, you know."

John shrugged.

"You're ridiculous."

He stayed pointedly quiet.

"Are you serious right now?"

John nodded.

"Fine, whatever. I just won't take you to Denny's after this."

"Hey!"

"Oh, look who found the key!"

John gave him the finger and quieted down, giving up his attempt to ignore the match before him and watching the monitor. He had to admit, there were a few times he was definitely convinced this was going to go wrong. But it seemed like they'd put a lot of effort into it, Alberto was always pretty great, and John had to (begrudgingly) hand it to Ziggler, he was taking it like a champ.

Not like _the _champ, but a champ nonetheless.

The match ended shortly after that, and John watched as Punk stopped stretching to watch the screen as they led Ziggler back stage. His face was blank and John frowned, unsure of what to do. Both Ziggler selling his way up the ramp and Punk's emotionless observance went on far longer than John found comfortable. He shifted awkwardly on the couch, and just as he was about to break the silence, Punk turned away from the screen, smiling as if the last minute hadn't happened.

"I need to go. Good luck."

John tried not be taken aback, but he was pretty sure he failed. He awkwardly raised his arm, not knowing what he was doing with it, before offering his fist for a bump. "Break a leg, man."

"I'll try not to." Punk tapped his taped fist to John's, flipped up his hood, and left.

John stayed in the room a little while longer, trying to figure out what had just happened. He looked back up at the screen when Punk's music hit. And then, there he was, face still covered. But Punk was there, going back out to the ring.

It looked so right.

To think there was a time just weeks ago when John had worried whether or not this would ever happen again. Now, knowing otherwise was great.

The best part was watching Punk's eyes. Leading into 'Mania, John had never seen Punk look more tired, more edgy, less enthused to be where he was. But even earlier today, some of that energy Punk got was boiling under the surface of familiarity and comfort, of looking like he'd made the best decision ever by returning. Now, the mania was at the forefront – Punk's eyes bled wrestling.

John felt a mix of emotions, all positive, well up in his chest.

His match sucked.

Nick came to that conclusion just before the very last spot. The entire thing had been a miserable affair, but right now he just wanted it over and done with. His head felt fine, but there was the big finish and he had the worst feeling…

He glimpsed April leaning in under the bottom rope, far more concerned than would have been needed to just pass off this entire angle. He finally pulled himself to his knees, arms defensive like he might actually try for something, and got the last shot to the head, and _holy fuck that was loud_.

And just like that, it was over.

Doc was in the ring with him almost immediately, and Nick rolled onto his side, burying his face in the ring, half to sell the loss and half to hide his actual anguish. Doc asked him about his head, and Nick came to the realization that allowing this to happen was pretty fucked on everyone's parts.

But he'd passed the ImPACT tests, so it wasn't like he could have said no anyway.

Alberto celebrated the win and sold his turn, and Jesus' voice chimed in over the PA so loud it almost did give Nick a headache. He shook his head no to all Doc's questions – he was fine, physically at least. But a few frustrated tears were leaking out now, despite his best attempts to hold them back. He felt April slide in behind him as they pulled him out of the ring, and she took a seat on the apron next to him. He looked up at her face, and she was more upset than he was.

He was selling more than was necessary, but he past the point of simply selling the second the bell rang. At least he would get praised for how well he sold this entire clusterfuck.

The group of them made it to the foot of the ramp before Nick was so overwhelmed he collapsed to his knees right there.

Watching Nick's match was…uncomfortable to say the least.

It was brutal in the weirdest way – the entire thing was almost calm – and Punk was surprised anyone from medical agreed to clear Nick to get kicked in the head repeatedly for 15 plus minutes. Punk was pretty sure more than a few people had called some of this program content into question – especially Doc, considering how many times he ran into the match to check, even if it was all a work. Punk was under the impression Nick had felt obligated to do this; Punk tell simply from the look on April's face that no one was particularly fond of the situation they were in.

It was the legitimate frustration on Nick's face throughout that made Punk the most uncomfortable. Like he wanted to pounce out and take down anyone he could get his hands on, but he had to keep the work going.

After Alberto got the pin, Nick's face was buried into the ring and Punk couldn't tear his eyes away. He had no clue if John was still there, if John was even talking. He was so singularly focused on watching Nick…it hurt.

It hurt because Punk cared about the poor guy. He'd just been through a lot, and now here he was losing the title they so _graciously_ allowed him to keep for a mostly untelevised reign. It was all a little messed up. But whatever, shit happened. He knew that, Nick knew that, the world knew that.

But whatever creative had set out to accomplish with this match was achieved when Nick collapsed at the bottom of the ramp and the uncomfortable factor increased dramatically. Punk had to finally look away. It felt wrong to watch something like that.

He turned to John and played the entire thing off. "I have to go. Good luck."

"Break a leg, man." John offered a fist bump.

"I'll try not to." Punk bumped it, just to shake the uncomfortable stillness from his bones.

He pulled up his hood and headed out the door, just as Paul was hanging up from berating his daughter about some upcoming boy band concert he "absolutely was not" going to allow her to attend "because those little assholes are all on fucking drugs, I can tell you that right now, Azalea. And I refuse to allow my hard earned money to be what lets those little fuckfaces 'pop Mollies' in 'da club'!"

Punk tried not to laugh and Paul just groaned. "Fucking kids, what was I ever thinking? Should have sent them to boarding school with no internet access."

"I don't know man. Society fooled you into thinking it was a good idea."

"No, their mother did that."

Punk laughed and started off for the arena entrance.

Chris was already there and into his last minute stretches, something Punk knew far better than to interrupt. He pulled on his headphones, going for one more song while he got worked up. Chris disappeared through the curtain and Punk rolled his neck a few dozen times. He could feel how loud the crowd out there was yelling all through Chris' entrance, and he knew it would be even louder for him.

Paul's customary tap to his shoulder had him handing his phone and headphones off to the closest PA and waiting for his cue.

The second they got out there, it all rushed back.

It was right.

* * *

Over an hour after his match, Nick sat alone trying to decompress.

The trainers had checked him over, and Doc gave him the okay and an uneasy smile because apparently that's what you did to idiots who agreed against everyone's better judgment to have their just-healed concussions exploited on pay-per-view television.

He'd made his way back to the dressing rooms, everyone sort of ignoring the fact that anything uncomfortable had happened, and telling him he had a good match anyway. He showered and changed quickly, and let April know that he would be there when they needed to leave, but for now he needed to be alone

He just needed time.

He heard footsteps off in the distance, and realized they weren't just passing by as they got closer and closer. Suddenly, Punk was right in front of him and – _God_.

"Have you been hiding?"

Punk had looked for Nick everywhere. He'd questioned nearly every person he'd come into contact with, until April told him Nick had wandered to be alone. He'd been torn. Part of him wanted to let Nick have his privacy, to get his head right. But the other part needed to make sure he was okay.

Nick forced a smile and rose. "No, I just needed to be alone." Nick gazed up at Punk and almost flinched away at the sight of him. He might as well have glowed; Punk held himself like he had just won the Royal Rumble, Money in the Bank, and the main event at WrestleMania all in one night. It was intimidating to say the least. "You're in a good mood."

"I had a good night."

"Yeah. Those are always great."

Punk frowned. "You all right?"

Nick shrugged. "I don't know. I'd just like tonight to be over. It kind of sucked."

"Yeah. Your match was a little hard to watch."

Nick snorted. "It was a little hard to participate in."

"It wasn't bad…" It hadn't been. It had done what it was supposed to and it had kept his attention, though Punk was pretty sure he would have been attentive no matter what.

Nick didn't exactly agree. "I did nothing but get kicked in the head, but thanks for trying to make me feel better."

Punk frowned. "Nick, I'm not trying-"

"You are though." Punk was trying. Punk was trying to make him feel better about it, and it just wasn't helping. He didn't want someone who felt fine right now trying to make him feel better about it. He wanted to be alone again to stew in this until he was past it and able to deal with Punk again without biting his head off.

He leaned back against the wall and sighed. All he felt right now was defeated.

Punk stared at Nick a while, his heart sinking for his friend. He was so upset, and he really just wanted to cheer him up – puppy-saving moral compass and what not. He pulled on a smile. "Hey. Come on. I promised we'd go have dinner, and winner always pays. John is coming too."

Nick's neck hurt with how quickly his head snapped back around to glare at Punk, a little wide-eyed and slack jawed. "…I'm sorry. You think…what the fuck, Punk?"

Punk frowned. "…I don't know what you think I think but…"

Nick laughed bitterly. "I don't want to go out, Punk."

Punk stepped closer and gripped his shoulder. "I know you're in a bad mood. Come have a good time, and relax."

"I was relaxing before you got here."

"No, you were _obsessing_ before I got here."

Nick flinched away. "God, Punk, you know me _so_ well."

Punk frowned. "Don't act like it's not the truth. I wouldn't even have to know you that well to know."

Nick sighed. "Look. I don't want to go out right now, okay?"

"Why not? Just for food. I mean really, free food makes everyone happy."

Nick finally snapped. "Punk, look, I don't want to go out for food, and I _especially_ don't want to go out for food with you and John. Just back off and leave me alone."

Punk stepped back from Nick. He was pretty confused, but he was pretty sure whatever was going on right now wasn't just about Nick's match. "…You don't want to go out with me? What the_ fuck_ did I do?"

"You didn't do anything!" His anger was slowly ebbing away and turning into something else. He felt so cornered right now, and the thought of going out with Punk and acting like everything was all right made him uneasy because it was just so fake.

The thought of John _fucking _Cena going with them compounded the uneasiness until it made him feel desperate and cagey. And he really didn't want to cause a scene right now, and he didn't want to make Punk uncomfortable because of how weird it would be between him and John after the unfortunate laughter incident. And he really didn't want to be around Cena period, no other reason than that, so that just made it all even worse.

Punk could see this was upsetting Nick. He just wanted to help him feel less down on all of this, and it was backfiring miserably. He really had no idea what to do to help, and that wasn't something he was okay with. "I obviously did something if you don't want to come. If it's a big deal and I offended you, you can pay if you want. It's not a big deal."

"This isn't just about that!"

"Then what's it about because you are making no sense right now."

"Are you kidding?"

"No. I'd love to know." Punk tried to move close again, but Nick leveled him such a glare he backed up, raising his hands defensively. "Hey. Calm down. Can you please just come? It'll be good for you. You can't just go disappear to some hotel room like this. Going out will get your mind off whatever this shit is."

"No, it won't. It's just going to add other shit to it and-" he abruptly stopped when he spotted the person coming down the hall over Punk's shoulder.

Punk sighed. "Then let's talk about what's wrong because-"

"Hey! I've been looking- "John stuttered to a halt when he realized Punk wasn't alone.

Ziggler met his eye over Punk's shoulder, and John instantly grabbed Punk by the back of the arm, pulling him away. Ziggler looked like he was about to lose it – John didn't know what 'it' was, but it was something – and he wasn't about to let Punk be on the receiving end of that shit. Ziggler was all wide-eyed and upset, looking all sort of cornered animal, and John had a bad feeling about it.

Punk glanced at John and pulled his arm away, moving back toward Nick. "Come with us."

With Cena there, Nick knew any chance he had of cracking and telling Punk what was wrong was long gone. He just wanted to get away from both of them. And now. He was getting itchy and his chest was getting tight and, "I'm not doing this right now."

"_Nick_."

He made to move past Punk – opposite where Cena was, he wasn't going anywhere _near _him – but Punk grabbed him anyway. "No, Punk! I have to go." He was going to lose it. He couldn't stay here right now. He couldn't be in this building. Not at all.

Punk caught Nick's eyes and got even more worried. His was red faced, eyebrows pulled together over wide, watery eyes. His jaw was set all wrong – tight and hard and clamped like it was holding something in. He was tense all over: his shoulders were set too high, his arms were pulled too close to his sides, he was planted so firmly where he was, Punk was sure he wouldn't ever be able to move him. "You don't. It'll be quick. I know you have the time. April told me. Come out, and relax."

Nick wrenched himself away. "I just can't – I can't. I have to go – let me go."

Punk moved to stop him again, but Nick startled and sidestepped him. "_Nick!_"

John watched the scene before him unfold with confusion. Ziggler was freaking out, and Punk was trying to get him to come out, but if Ziggler really didn't want to, John didn't see the harm in letting him go work out his problems elsewhere. "What's-"

Punk put his hand up and threw him a warning look. "John, don't." He stepped closer to Nick, but he back up again. "Please, let's just go talk and then go eat and you can go."

Nick shook his head over and over. "You don't get it. April's waiting for me. I have to go!" He got past Punk and away as fast as he could, shaking. He had to force himself to breathe again, to stop thinking crazy thoughts like last time. He just needed to get out of here.

"Nick!" He didn't turn around, and eventually disappeared at a turn in the hall. Punk raked his hands over his face as he turned back to John. "What the fuck..."

John stared at Punk, waiting for an explanation of what he'd just stumbled upon. "What _was_ that?"

Punk shrugged. "I don't even know. He just…"

"Like what, does he have something against Denny's?"

"_Not_ funny, John."

John flashed him a sheepish grin. "Oh, come on. He didn't want to come with us! Who doesn't want to go to Denny's?"

Punk shook his head. "It's not about Denny's. It's about something else."

John watched as Punk paced around a little, waiting for a response. "…I feel like I'm missing something."

Punk shrugged. "So do I." He really did. There had to be more to this than just Nick's brother and what had gone on with his match. But until Nick told him, there was nothing Punk could do about it. He sighed, and quit pacing in front of John. "Let's just go, I want to sleep in my bed one last time before this travelling nightmare starts again."

"What nightmare? You love it."

"Shut up."

* * *

Nick found April – already pajama clad and bespectacled – grazing craft services and filling her purse with packs of Cheez-Its and mini-water bottles for the ride to Grand Rapids.

"Can we go?"

She startled and he cringed as her face faded to concern. When she went to speak up – he just knew what she was going to ask – he held up his hand. "Please? Can we please just leave? I can't stay here."

April's brow furrowed. "Yeah. Absolutely. Let me find someone."

She went to go, but he grabbed her hand instead. "I'm coming with you."

She was quiet for a second, but nodded. "Yeah. Of course. Come on."

She led him out to the hall and grabbed a PA who was still rushing about. After a few moments of headset communication, they were being escorted to the car waiting to take them up to Grand Rapids so they could grab a few hours of rest before their ridiculously early call time at the local station for radio and morning show interviews.

In the backseat, he pressed up against April's side, wanting to be as close as he could. He knew she was watching him, but he stared resolutely out the windshield, still gripping her hand in his, white knuckled and hoping he wasn't crushing her bones. He could feel her other hand carding through his hair, and he leaned into it, desperate for her touch, her comfort. She let go of his hand, and he frantically reached out to find it, but she snaked her arm around him and pulled him closer, hand in his hair forcing him to bury his face in her neck. She held him, and he grabbed her around the waist, yanking her closer.

"Are you okay?"

He shook his head. "No," he choked out, "everything is so fucked up."

She kissed his temple, hand tight in his hair, and the contact – the _pressure_ of the contact – was so good, so amazing, so real. "Everything is going to be okay. I'm here. I've got you."

He nodded, pressing his lips against any part of her neck within reach. "I can't do this anymore. I can't."

"Shh, Nick. It's okay. Calm down."

"I can't!"

She pressed her lips to his ear. "I have you. I'm not letting you go."

"I hate this."

"I know."

"I can't do it."

"You can. You have. You have to. I'm going to help, I promise."

"April-"

"Shh. Just rest. I'm right here."

Nick quieted down and just held her, listening to her breath while she held him.

* * *

John watched Punk pour packets of sugar into little piles on his empty plate.

The meal had been quiet and Punk had seemed distant the entire time. John wasn't sure what to say to fix it. He'd racked his brain for ways to approach the situation, but he really had none. He wasn't used to this Punk, wasn't used to him being quiet, wasn't used to him being the one with the problem.

John wasn't sure what to do. But he needed to get Punk to lighten up or this Denny's trip was a bust.

"So…Ziggler is an asshole!" John smiled and gave a him thumbs up.

Punk's hands stilled, and he stared at John for a long while. John was pretty sure he'd broken the guy, but then Punk laughed awkwardly. "He's not, John." He shook his head. "He's just upset."

"I don't know him, and he isn't making the greatest impression. So, asshole."

"Right now, I don't feel like I know him, so I can't sway you from that."

"Well, you know him better than I do. So you must be a hell of a lot less confused than _I _am."

"Actually, I think I'm more confused."

"No. There is _no one_ more confused than me right now."

Punk sighed. "I thought he was just upset about how the night went-"

"Oh, so he's a big crybaby when he doesn't win matches? That's rich."

Punk stared at him, blank-faced, and John had the sense to look sorry. "No," Punk continued. "He's just…incredibly upset about a lot of things that resulted in that. I thought I knew…but I'm starting to think he's upset about more than he told me."

"You realize that everything you're saying right now makes this guy appeal to my bro-senses less and less, right?"

Punk tossed his last empty sugar packet down in the middle of the table and sat back. "First, don't ever say 'bro-senses' again. And second, I get it…I don't think he was very happy with the idea of coming out with both of us. He kept telling me he wouldn't so…"

"Oh, so he _doesn't _like me. Knew it."

"He's never exactly said it, but yeah. I think your feelings towards him might be mutual."

"I don't see why. I didn't squawk at him."

Punk finally cracked a smile. "But you squawked at me."

"Shut up."

Punk laughed, then sighed. "His brother got released."

"I heard."

"He didn't take it…well. He thought it was his fault. And he was kind of…a mess after that. He had it together when I left. I don't know what happened after that. I have no idea why he was so upset when we were leaving, but he seemed very adamant about not going with us, and kept saying that I didn't get it…"

"So are you trying to tell me I should excuse the squawking because he was already crazy?"

"John," Punk warned.

John held his hands up in defense. "I'm just trying to make this situation better. I'm trying to make you feel better."

"I know. I appreciate it. I'm just worried about him."

John was quiet for a while. "You really like the guy?"

Punk nodded. "Yeah. He's cool. And he's sort of an asshole like me, so I can appreciate that. I just don't know what's going on with him right now…"

"I'll give him a chance if you want me to."

"As great as that sounds, you should give him a chance because you want to."

"Whatever. Next time I see him, I'll try to smile and shit."

"He'll probably call me and ask me why you were snarling at him," Punk smirked.

"Oh, fuck you, Brooks! You suck."

* * *

Nick startled awake to April calling his name and rubbing his shoulder, and he felt foggy and numb.

"Nick, come on. We're here." He looked up at her, and she smiled, pushing his hair out of his face. "You can sleep when we're checked in."

Nick had no memory of getting from the car to the room, and he was still dazed when they got there, dropping his bag and sinking onto the first bed he reached. He looked at the clock, and it was already past two. He remembered they needed to be up in less than four hours to do this entire media morning. The idea had him choking on more panic and the overwhelming dread he'd dealt with all day spilled over.

He broke.

He started crying again, sobbing into the heel of his palm, like he'd waited to do since he had reined it in at the foot of the ramp and got himself backstage as stoically as he could manage. But now, he couldn't help it, and it had all bubbled to the surface and exploded.

April suddenly knelt in front of him and he knew she was asking him what was wrong over and over, but he couldn't say anything, couldn't force any of it out. She was off her knees and hugging him, and he sobbed into her chest. He couldn't stop. He tried to avoid gasping; he didn't want to hyperventilate. And he didn't – _thank God_.

He cried for a long time. He knew it had to be because April had shifted around several times, finally ending up next to him, rocking him from side to side. He had calmed down considerably, and pulled away to look at her.

April wiped his eyes and he felt like a complete asshole when she smiled softly at him. "It's okay, you know."

He rolled his eyes. "Being a complete mess?

"No. Being scared. Life is scary. _Especially_ this life."

"I'm not just scared."

"I know. Things are tough."

"My head…"

"Is okay. They said it was okay."

He took a deep breath. "I don't think it is," he just barely forced out.

She pressed a kiss to his forehead, lingering with her lips just brushing the skin for a while before pulling completely away. "It's okay. It's perfect."

Nick gazed up at her, and he couldn't take it, pulling her in as bone-crushingly close as he could stand and resting his forehead against her chin, hands tangling into her long hair. He wanted to tug at it and let it go and do it again. He wanted to bury himself inside her chest, under all her skin and bones, where he could always be inside her and let her keep him safe and sound, just like this. Her hands were running through his hair again and it was so soothing, so right.

April pulled away enough to lay her forehead to his, and he hated himself even more just meeting her eyes. He could tell how much he was scaring her, how worried she was about this, but she was so brave. Brave for him, and he really truly did not deserve anything out of her. She owed him nothing, especially not all this.

He tried to smile but it just turned into a sniffle, and her soft laughter made him feel just a bit lighter. "I can't imagine…I know you're really stressed right now. But you're okay. You're going to be okay. Your head is fine. Your career is fine. Ryan is fine. I'm fine. We're all fine. Nothing is going to happen, okay? I know you know that deep down, I know you're just letting the stress get to you. You need to start believing all this. Because it's the truth – I would_ never_ lie to you…."

He nodded. He wasn't sure how much he believed her, but she got it. She understood where his head was. And even if she wasn't 100% clue in on all the details of each of his worries, she got them. He loved her for it, loved her for how well she got where his head was.

"I know. I'm just…" he thought about what to say a long while, and went with the one thing that kept popping up. "You're perfect."

April laughed. "I'm not, Nick. But…thank you."

He shook his head. "No, you are," he insisted. "You're so perfect that I really can't even stand it."

All levity drained from April's gaze and Nick nearly fidgeted under the serious replacement. "You shouldn't say things like that."

"I'm not going to lie. It's the truth."

"It's not."

"It's what I think is true."

"Nick…"

He grabbed her hand. "Seriously."

"I…"

"I think about you all the time."

April looked away from him. "Nick…"

"I do. You don't even know…I just…"

"I think about you all the time, too."

It was so soft that Nick almost didn't catch it, and it took a second to sink in. But then she finally looked at him again, and it was written all over her face. He couldn't stop himself from leaning – no, _pouncing_ – forward and kissing her.

Fuck, it had to have been nearly three o'clock at this point, but Nick didn't care at all. He was wired now, there was no way he was going to fall asleep at all, especially after this development. And fuck, April didn't even care that he was gross and clammy and sweaty and snotty – _she was_ _kissing him back_.

He pulled back, scooped her up under the thighs, and gently tossed her further up the bed, giving her a watery smile as she giggled a little on the landing. He was up the bed and hovering over her before he even realized he was moving, and all the light-heartedness of that little moment left her face as she reached up and pulled him down, relocking their lips and slipping her tongue in against his.

He moaned into her mouth at the sudden sensation, and she tugged at his hair, earning a groan. He could feel her smirk against his lips, and then she was licking across his bottom lip. She nipped at his mouth before pulling away, and when he met her eyes, she pulled down the zipper of his hoodie so slowly he thought he might bat her hands away and rip it off himself if she kept teasing him. Her blunt nails raked down his arms as she pulled the sleeves down, and when he was free, he tossed it aside and buried his face in her neck. "Fuck, April…"

He slipped his hands under the fabric of her shirt and ran his fingertips along her sides. She shivered under him, rubbing up against him, and he bit into the skin under her ear. She gasped and he bit down again, lips following teeth as he sucked at the spot to soothe it. His hands crept higher, and he found she was braless. His hands flew out of her shirt and he grabbed the hem, pulling it up as quickly as he could.

"My glasses are caught!" she yelped, and he let go. She worked her shirt off the rest of the way, and he was caught off guard when she put her glasses right back on.

April in glasses and topless, hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back and all fucked up from his hands was…_fuck_. He was almost instantly hard at the sight.

He kissed her again, and his hands roamed her torso, leaving goose flesh in their wake that felt more than incredible when his hands skimmed back over it. She shivered. Her body was soft and strong under his hands, and he figured it was pretty fitting for how she was.

April's hands were under his tank top, nails erratically scraping at him when he kissed away from her mouth and down her jaw, along the slope of her neck, across her chest. She moaned, arching her back to press her chest closer to his mouth, and he pulled away long enough to let her pull his shirt off. They locked eyes for a second. April threw his shirt across the room. He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, kissing her again.

He pulled away and undid the drawstring on her pants, hands suddenly shaking with anticipation. "April…"

April grabbed his hands, steadying them. "It's okay. I know." She cupped his cheek and kissed his forehead. "I've got you."

He grabbed the fabric of her pajamas where it lay loose around her thighs and pulled, eyes following plaid as they slipped down over lean, tan legs. Her gripped tightened on his cheek, and when he looked up, when he met her eyes, his chest swelled and he realized exactly how bad he wanted this – wanted her. She toed her pants off, and he was running his hands up from her calves – he could reach them from here, she was _so_ tiny under him. He ghosted his fingertips across the backs of her knees, and her eyes fell closed and her head tipped back, and his mouth was on her throat before he could think about it. His hand brushed against the outside of her thigh, across the front, and up the inside.

He was obsessed. He had to touch her.

His hand cupped her panties and she was hot, so hot, heat was radiating off her.

He pulled away from her neck and looked down, just to see it – he had to see it himself.

His hand looked so huge holding her, and when it slipped under the flimsy fabric and disappeared, all the muscles in her stomach tightened and went concave, and he leaned down to nip at them, suck at them. Shit, he just needed his mouth on them, needed to feel her response with his tongue, his lips…

"Nick! Holy-" she moaned, and dug her hand into his hair.

He kissed up her chest, and his other hand found its way to her hip – to her waistband – and pulled down, making him lose his grip on her for a second. She whined in protest and quickly lifted her legs from where they laid around him. He got her free, and her legs were back around him, ankles locked around his waist. She frantically grabbed at him, pulling back in for another kiss.

She grabbed his hand and forced it back between her legs, and he laughed against her lips. "Impatient much?" he gasped out.

"Oh – _fuck _– shut up! I swear, I'm going to torture you even worse than this, _just touch me_!" she demanded and his heart jumped at the prospect of her touching him too.

So he touched her, slipping a finger inside her – so wet, so warm – and she clamped down hard on it. He thought he might drop dead right then and there – _he could barely feel his finger_ – and he kissed her again, much harder this time. As he slid his finger in and out of her – April fluttering around him the entire time – he found himself grinding into her leg.

He'd been so consumed by April, in touching her and watching her, he'd barely even though about it (an actual first in his life). But, _fuck_, was he hard. He needed out of his pants – what had possessed him to even think jeans were a good idea? – and he needed April touching him again.

He grabbed the hand that had grabbed at him before and brought it to him, and April gasped out an "oh!" against his lips. She was suddenly working at his button and fly, and if she didn't hurry he might start thrusting at air. Her hand brushed against him as she tugged at his zipper, and Nick bit down on her lip so hard she pulled away.

She grabbed at his pants, purposely catching his briefs with them, and yanked them down his legs and then – _holy shit her mouth._

He was knocked over, suddenly on his back from his kneeling position, and April was over him, straddling his thighs, and he wound his hand into her hair as tight as he could. _He needed her, she was his anchor – he had to hold on._ She kept his cock in her mouth – he couldn't even think about what she was doing with her mouth past that, it was too much – and she worked his pants the rest of the way down his legs.

Her nails ran up his abs and he was shaking, and he had to pull her away before it all ended. He grabbed her by the hips and flipped her onto her back, and after several awkward moments of fumbling to get his wallet from his jeans, he had one of her legs wrapped over his shoulder and he sank into her.

He stilled his hips because if he didn't, he'd be done.

April's nails were in his shoulder, and she ground into him and he had to pin her hips to the bed for a second just to focus. She whined and wrapped her other leg around his waist and – holy shit, he'd thought about this enough times watching her in the Black Widow, but having her around him was something else entirely.

It was quick and fast, and he couldn't get away from her lips long enough to kiss her anywhere else. And it all came crashing down around him when her eyes rolled back, eyelashes fluttering, and she'd called out his name and clamped down on him, nails and arms and legs and feet all digging into him. It was over stimulating and he fell into her.

And later, he held her as close as he could. She puffed even little breaths into his neck. He stroked her hair and managed to slide her glasses off without waking her.

The panic was better, but it was still there, thrumming under the surface. So he just focused on April, and she got him through.

* * *

AN: Well. There's that monster. Don't hate me. Or hate me. I would hate me too.

Feedback of all types is appreciated!


	8. Eight

Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

AN: Thanks for the great response to last chapter. I wasn't so sure about it, so it was good to know people liked it!

So, Miz wasn't in this chapter at first. Or in the story at all. But then him and Dolph were just adorable at Comic Con. So they are now Cleveland Buddies. (Which, I realized, Dolph has definitely remarked on him and Miz going to a Cleveland home game before. So it was already true!)

These next three chapters are some of my favorites so far! I wrote chapter nine sort of concurrently with this one, so there's a good chance it will be up soon.

Chapter Warnings: Showers hate Dolph. April is uncertain. Brock Lesnar is a human being. Ghostbusters. Hardcore Trading Places references – like if you've never seen this movie, you need to go Google it. Hardcore divorce feels. Homesickness. Briley is judging you.

* * *

Nick was not a fan of Monday morning.

He never fell asleep that night, and jumped when their wake up call came, startling April. She was not a happy camper, groaning, whining, and pinning him to the bed under her dead weight in attempts to avoid getting up. He'd finally pried himself away, no where near motivated to start that day, only to have the showerhead come flying off, narrowly missing his head.

The universe had it out for him. It really did.

When she finally got out of bed, April stayed grouchy, mumbling something about baby wipes when he told her the shower was broken. He chalked it up to exhaustion and waited over fifteen minutes for her to get ready. When they finally left, the woman from PR accompanying them on their morning journey had been about to start banging on their door.

The ride to the studio was silent. The interviews went well, both of them slipping comfortably into character. Nick's head swam the entire time with weird, sleep-deprived cloudiness, but he powered through.

Nick broke the ice on the car ride back.

"April."

She looked over at him, and he couldn't read her face. "Yeah?"

"You okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just…really tired."

"I couldn't fall asleep."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I was just…wired."

"You should have said something."

"You were asleep."

"I would have stayed up. The hour and a half I got didn't make much of a difference."

"No. That's dumb."

She shrugged. "Well I would have."

"It's okay. I survived."

They were quiet again the rest of the way to the hotel. Up in their room, April locked herself in the bathroom for a while. When she came back out, Nick held his arms open for her from bed. She shook her head and climbed into the other bed by herself.

She went out like a light.

Nick watched her for a while, only turning over and closing his eyes after praying she was just grouchy and tired, not anything worse.

* * *

He came to in the early afternoon. April was awake and changed, watching television and eating a pack of mini muffins.

She laughed at him. "You look so confused."

He was. "I think my brain liquefied while I was sleeping."

She smiled. "I tried to wake you up, but you swatted at me, so I let you go."

Nick sat up and stretched, his back cracking in several places. "What time is it?"

"A little after two."

"Jeeze…"

"Shower's fixed if you want to get in there."

He nodded and relaxed against the headboard. "I need a while…"

"That's fine."

"Do you want to go out and get food?"

"Um…" April bit her lip and went back to watching television for a while.

Nick waited for an answer and didn't get one. "…April?"

"I think we should talk about what we did last night." She didn't look away from the television.

Nick stared, confused and worried. He tried to push the worry away. "Um…okay…."

April watched the last five minutes of the episode, and Nick spent the entire time getting more and more confused, more and more fidgety. When she turned off the television and turned to him, he was so relieved he nearly forgot what she was going to talk about. "We shouldn't have done it."

Nick felt like he'd been slapped in the face. "…What?"

April got up and came to sit next to him in bed. "I don't…I don't think last night was a mistake. But at the same time, I sort of do. Do you know what I mean?"

"No." Because for him, the night before had been the exact opposite.

"Last night was great, like _really_ great. Super great. And I don't regret doing it. But we shouldn't have."

Nick stared at her. "Did you just try to stroke my ego and then shut me down?"

April laughed a little, but it faded to a sad smile. "Well, I mean…it wasn't showing off because you backed it up, right?"

Nick laughed. This was all ridiculous. "You're adorable."

"Yeah…but you were way too upset for me to have let that happen. And I think if I hadn't been so tired, I would have turned you down."

Nick smirked at her. "Likely story, but no one turns me down."

"Well rested April would have." She grabbed his hand. "But unrested April didn't. And I feel like now that well rested April is here, she needs to set this all straight. It's not going to happen again."

"Ever?"

"No. Not never. Just…not now, you know?"

"I fucked up, didn't I?"

"No. You didn't. We both kind of did…it's not a hopeless case or anything. I just feel like maybe we need to take a couple steps back."

"If that's what you want, it's what I want."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, what am I going to do, throw a tantrum about it?"

"I might actually put up with that."

"Don't kid yourself. You'd kick my ass."

"I would."

Nick pulled her in and pressed a kiss to her temple. "I need to go cry in the shower now."

"Oh, shut up! You're not going to cry."

"I'm going to bite my fist so you can't hear the sobs."

She smacked him with a pillow. "Go shower so we can get going. I'm starving."

"Hey lady. You got mini muffins. Don't think I didn't see you chowing down on them."

"Darn. I thought maybe you missed that."

"No. And they were blueberry, which are my favorite too."

"Go shower. You smell terrible."

"That's pretty much your fault."

She blushed. "Go."

He did.

* * *

Raw that night was so weird.

Nick's whole story for the night was that he wasn't cleared. He wasn't going out until the end of the show when he would wail on Alberto after his count out loss to Punk. He already knew the chances of running into Punk because of his involvement in the match were high…he just didn't want to run into him before he absolutely had to.

He had a few texts from Punk already. Mostly just asking if he was okay. Nick had ignored them, feeling like an asshole for doing it, but he didn't want to lie and say yes. He wasn't in the mood to start explaining his jealousy over Punk's success to him. He was pretty sure Punk wouldn't appreciate it in the least.

So he was camped out in a nice little spot near the Divas locker room with E and April. Things between the two of them had been odd the whole day…but he was determined to keep things from being awkward, so he was treating her the same as always. And if E noticed anything was off, he was kind enough to keep it to himself.

E and April were – once again – discussing something Nick had no clue about, and he was fiddling with his phone when Punk texted him again.

_Punk  
_I know you're here. Do you think I'm stupid?  
_Punk (2)  
_Just let me know if you're okay.  
_Punk (3)  
_I'm just really worried after last night.

Nick sighed. _I'm okay. _

_Punk  
_Thank you.

Nick put his phone away, and focused on anything but it's weight in his hoodie pocket.

A while later, April, E, and most of the Divas locker room filed out for their promo with Stephanie McMahon. After sitting by himself for a while, he got too bored to sit, and started off for more populated areas of the walked around and talked with a few people he ran into, and soon enough, a PA was leading him up front to get ready for the segment.

Punk was already there.

Nick wasn't quite sure what to do, but awkwardly stopping short called more attention to him. Punk looked his way and watched him for a second, jutting his chin in his direction after a while. Nick gave a stiff little wave back.

And then Heyman rolled up with Brock Lesnar, and Nick sort of wished the wall would absorb him – Punk looked as if he was having the same thoughts, but he offered Brock a handshake anyway.

The segment went off without a hitch, and Nick was sure that the crowd's reaction was the biggest pop he'd ever gotten (also, he'd felt like Bryan when he and Alberto went flying off the stage). They'd made their way back around to gorilla, and Jesús ended up telling him all about how he _had_ looked like Bryan – minus all the hair.

Nick turned from Jesús and was greeted with Punk, limping over to him, holding his sides. "That son of a bitch…thought I was going _through_ the ring for a second."

"I thought you might too."

"He's lucky Paul and I have an unspoken agreement that I treat him like a human being…"

Nick smiled. "Sounds about right."

Punk leaned against a table and smiled at him. "So. I must sound like the world's pushiest asshole, but will you come out tonight? John doesn't have to come if that's a problem…"

"I can't."

Punk's face fell. "Nick…"

Nick held a hand up to stop him. "No, I'm not skipping out on you. I just have to leave in like…10 minutes. I'm on SmackDown."

"Oh. Okay."

"Yeah…" Nick stepped closer to Punk. "Text me though."

Punk studied his face, leaving Nick a little uncomfortable. "Yeah?"

Nick nodded. "Yeah. I'll talk. I promise."

Punk raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. He reached out and squeezed Nick's shoulder, and Nick couldn't help but lean into the touch. "I'll see you next week, man."

Nick nodded and went off.

* * *

Punk vowed to himself on the walk to his and John's booth that he was not going to let how bothered he was by the Nick thing affect this outing.

He had done that last night, and it wasn't fair to John – he had nothing to do with this situation (though, okay, Nick had seemed pretty against being anywhere near John). Punk shouldn't punish him for that. John hadn't actually _done_ anything to cause whatever Nick was mad about (as far as Punk knew) so…John was completely innocent. He didn't deserve any of Punk's confusion.

"So, we going to talk all about Ziggler again tonight?" John got right to it.

Punk leveled him a glare he'd like to think was menacing, but with John, Punk sometimes couldn't manage those looks. "No. He's fine. What I _do_ want to talk about is my 'Hawks."

John groaned. "Ugh, God, not Hockey."

"Yes, _God_, hockey. After tonight, I'm officially their…groupie? No. That's wrong. But I plan on following them around until this lovely company drags me away again."

John shook his head. "Lost cause, dude. That's the Bruins' Cup and you know it."

Punk rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Sure. You're just jealous."

"Need I remind you that we whooped your ass in overtime tonight and on Saturday?"

"Need _I_ remind _you_ that we whooped your ass in _triple_ overtime in Game One?"

"So?"

"I've got a lot of faith in my boys."

"You mean you've bought them a lot of pancakes. That doesn't mean anything."

"You wanna bet?"

John smirked, dimples popping, and sat back on his bench. "Oh. I would love _nothing_ more than to see you lose to me. So yes – I'd like to make a bet."

Punk smirked back. "All right, Gretsky. How much?"

John nodded, thinking face pasted on. His eyes widened and the creepiest, most predatory grin Punk had ever seen spread across his face. Punk wondered for a second if he should take it all back before John had him agreeing to something crazy.

But he didn't. "One. Dollar."

Punk laughed with relief. "A dollar?"

"I saw Trading Places on Comedy Central this weekend. I want to bet a dollar, Billy Ray Valentine."

"Why am _I_ the Eddie Murphy in this situation?"

"Because Dan Aykroyd rocks. And you're already Bill Murray when we play Ghostbusters. I'm just keeping with that line of thinking."

Punk laughed. "You are going to owe me a buck this time next week, Ray."

"I bet you I won't."

Punk rolled his eyes. "We aren't starting this again."

John's whole face lit up as he laughed, and Punk smiled at the sight.

* * *

John got back from dinner with Punk to find Nikki still up and watching television.

"Hey babe." He set down his phone, key, and wallet, and started changing for bed.

She smiled at him. "Hey…. where were you?"

"Out."

She frowned. "With Punk?"

The question gave John a bad feeling. "Yeah…where else would I have been?"

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the text."

"I didn't think I needed to check in…"

"Well, I texted you asking where you were. The least you could have done is answered. I was worried."

"Worried? Like what, that I got kidnapped?"

She stared him down and pursed her lips. "You know what I mean."

"Nik. You know him and I go out all the time. I seriously can't imagine where you thought I was."

"You never know, John!"

"Jesus, Nik! I don't have to tell you about everything I do!"

"John. The point is that you go out with him all the time without telling me."

John threw his hands up in frustration. "Did you want to come? Is that why you're angry? Because you can come next time! No one cares!"

"No! It'd just be nice to know where you are. Or, I don't know! Spend some time with you – _alone_ – that doesn't involve _sleeping_?"

"We spend time together." She shot him an incredulous look and he realized he wasn't helping his case by lying. "Okay. We could spend _more_ time together-"

"Well, halle-_fucking_-lujah! You finally figured it out!"

"Can you just stop? You want to spend time together? Let's spend some time together now!"

"No! Don't tell me what to do!" She got out of bed and slipped on her sandals. "I'm going to stay with Brie and Bryan. Fuck you."

"Are you serious? I want to spend time together right now, and you're going to go?"

"I'm exhausted from waiting for you! And yeah, you _really_ sound like you want to spend time with me right now, John. With all the _yelling_!"

"You yelled first!"

She brushed past him on her way to the door, but it was more like a tackle, and he had to make an effort to keep his footing. "Well _now_, I'm _leaving_ first!" She slammed the door open and stalked off.

John didn't go after her. "Well, fuck that!" The door banged shut behind her.

He went to the mini fridge and grabbed a $15 Heineken. He rarely ever did this, but he needed it tonight. He cracked it open on the little opener built into the door, slammed the door shut, and took it out to the balcony, collapsing into a chair and trying not to choke on the hot, humid night air.

Everything was going to shit with Nikki since his lapse in judgment at Extreme Rules. They hadn't spent much time together since then – he'd been busy with a million promotional things, and she'd been off shooting bachelorette parties and weddings for Total Divas. The time they did spend together often resulted in situations like this: lots of yelling, lots of disagreeing, lots of accusations.

She had broached the subject of what he'd meant when he'd told her he was trying to save her from himself several times – and John had shut her down every time she even tried to start. It was frustrating her; even if she hadn't already expressed that to him, he could tell.

But he just didn't know how to explain it all to her without…he wasn't sure. Would he be giving too much away? Would he offend her? He'd probably just scare her completely away.

At the same time, he'd been trying to figure out how to bring up how she was feeling about Punk…without actually listening to any of her previous complaints about how much time he spent calling and texting him. Of course, surreptitiously texting him while he and Nikki were spending time together hadn't been a great decision, and she'd shut him down with a, "think about why I might just be a _little _angry."

And now Punk was back, and he'd fallen into a cycle of spending time he should be spending with Nikki with him. Just in real life. Which was, apparently, a lot worse.

Right now, he could see their relationship was on the fast track to being over. But he didn't know how to stop it. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to be the first one lay it all out – though Nikki had done a fairly good job of starting it up with all her Punk complaints. John had no clue how to take the initiative…to figure out how to work past the anger and work it out – even if figuring it out was the difference between breaking up and staying together.

His marriage had fallen apart for the same reason. John was shit at rocking the boat.

He'd always been this way. Sure, he pressed his parents to get a rise out of them as a kid. He had _really_ worked on their last nerves as a teen. But when it really counted, he backed down. And that's why he was so successful now. He pressed when it was urgent, but when it really came down to it, he left the decisions up to the people with real power. And that's why he was the champ. It's why everything had worked out.

But it's also fucked him up when it came to moving through the normal stages of relationships.

Liz was his best friend – it was really that simple. It had taken him so long to marry her because the concept of losing their friendship if it didn't work made him insane. It was something he couldn't fathom, didn't want to have to think about. Fuck, it had taken him over a year to first kiss her when they were kids. It was why they'd been so on and off over the years….

But he'd done it. It had been the best decision he'd ever made for a while. God, he'd never been happier. And he'd sat there wondering why he had been so scared and cowardly for so many years, why he had fucked around with so many other insignificant women when he could have had her. They could have been happy for so long….

But then the laying awake at night and wondering started. Wondering what it would be like to still be just best friends. Wondering if they would ever be able to go back.

It had all been theoretical at first. He was still enamored, still committed, still so in love with her and their marriage.

But then things changed. Being lonely on the road and only hearing her voice, getting her texts, just wasn't enough. She didn't want to come out and travel with him; she wanted to retain some sense of normalcy for herself, even if he was going to be a superstar.

He didn't know how to change – to go home and be what she wanted. And he didn't know how to ask her to go back to the way they were. Fuck, if he'd just asked her to be friends but stay married for both their benefits, she probably would have gone along with it. He just didn't know how to bring it up.

Because he hates changing shit. Hates it. Hates being the catalyst in any situation. Hates taking initiative. He's still shocked he was ever able to get down on one knee and offer up a ring.

And it's why he cheated.

_Fuck_ – he can admit it – he cheated. Maybe even as much and as often as the internet made it seem. He hadn't wanted to do it, hadn't wanted to hurt her. But he had no clue how to say to Liz, "this isn't working, we aren't working, we need to end it." He wanted to stay her friend, he loved her too much not to.

But he slept around. It had been and still was a blur: he picked up pretty much any woman he could. He had no problem seducing them, being intimate with them, because it wasn't changing any preexisting relationship.

And Liz wasn't a fucking moron; she'd figured it out pretty easily after a while. He'd denied it and denied it...until he couldn't deny it anymore.

He'd picked so many dumb fights, come up with so many dumb excuses. Then he'd run off and filed for divorce all on his own, without ever telling her. To save her from all the hurt he was laying on her. And blamed it on a _renovation_.

Months into the divorce, after he realized he was a complete fucking moron but he had to go through with all this after the shit that had come out, it was suddenly July 11th; in the middle of all this, it was their third wedding anniversary. And he'd felt so guilty the whole day. He'd needed Punk pretty much at his side to get through.

(Punk, who had been there through most of it. Who'd seen him slowly make cheating a routine and warned him over and over that it was a bad idea. That he was going to hate himself for it. That the guilt wasn't worth it. That he needed to stop spilling everything to Punk and start spilling all of it to his wife.)

And that night, she'd called. And she told him it could all be over if he just admitted it. He admitted he'd cheated, and she'd laughed, and that was that.

A week later, the divorce was final. And now they weren't friends at all.

And he wondered now, if the reason he was the one to run out and end it without a single effort, was because he found a better best friend…and hadn't really cared anymore.

* * *

Nick was waiting on E and April in the parking lot after SmackDown, when Miz walked up to him on the way to his rental.

Mike shot him a big smile and shook his hand. "Heading out?"

Nick nodded. "Whenever the rest of my car gets here, yeah."

"Ugh, wish I was going to the airport. My mom's birthday is Thursday, so I'm going back home tonight."

"No shit? That sounds hellish."

"Yeah. But it'll be nice to be _home_ home, you know?"

And Nick did know. Nick knew exactly how it would feel to go home to Cleveland and see his family – his entire family, now that Ryan was home – rather than to an empty house in Phoenix. "Yeah, that sounds pretty amazing right now."

"It does. Got tickets for the game tomorrow."

Nick and Miz shot shit about the Indians for a while. As involved as he was in the conversation – because being angry with the Indians was a Nemeth family tradition – he couldn't stop thinking about how great it would be to just go home until the house shows that weekend. It had been a long time since he'd gone home for no reason. He only ever got home when they were appearing in Cleveland or at the holidays. The idea of dropping in unannounced was…

"You got anything going on?"

Nick shook his head. "Nah, man. Probably just go home…read HuffPo at the gym. Go to Chipotle…"

Mike laughed. "You should come man. Give me someone to bitch about the Indians to on the drive. And I've got a couple extra tickets. Bring your brother!"

Nick laughed. "As great as that sounds, I already have the flight and everything…"

"And that cost what, $400? Fuck it man. Rebook it and just come."

Nick wanted to say yes. He really did. He knew going home would be good for him. He knew talking to Ryan about things would help. But at the same time, he felt like going home was admitting some kind of defeat – at what, he didn't know. But he felt like if he went home…he was hiding. Like it was something he didn't deserve and something he would look cowardly for choosing.

But at the same time…No. He wasn't going to do that.

He shook his head. "Sorry, bro. I'm gonna go." As he said it, he spotted E and April making their way out to the car.

Mike shrugged. "All right, that's cool. I'll see you this weekend."

"Later!" Nick ignored the tight feeling in his chest as Miz walked off.

"Hey!" April greeted, smile on her face as they got closer.

"Hey guys."

E nodded his greeting as he popped the trunk. "Sorry. Didn't realize I had the keys."

"It's cool. I was only out here like 10 minutes..."

April tossed her bag in and yawned. "I can't wait to get home."

Nick nodded. Because he agreed. But he knew he didn't want to go back to Phoenix. Not this week. The tightness in his chest constricted, and Nick felt his panic rising.

"Fuck it!" He exclaimed, grabbing his bag off the ground.

April furrowed her brow at him. "Nick…"

"Go without me. I'm not going."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I'm going to Cleveland, I'll see you on Friday." He started off in the direction Mike had disappeared in, and stopped him just as he was pulling out of his parking spot.

He pulled the passenger's side door open, sliding in after he threw his bag over the headrest and into the backseat. "That ride to Cleveland still on the table?"

Mike smiled. "You know it." He started off again. "Thank God we won tonight, or I was going to give up on the whole season."

Nick nodded in agreement. "I know exactly what you mean."

* * *

Miz dropped Nick off outside his parents' house, with promises of the Indians game the next day, a bit after 1. It was the weirdest – coming here totally unannounced, right after a taping. He didn't know if he should have called ahead to avoid startling anyone. But the glow of the living room tv was leaking out the front windows. Someone was still up.

He climbed the front porch, retrieving the spare key from the magnetic in the awning, and let himself in.

Ryan startled awake on the couch, wiping drool from his chin. He stared at Nick like he was an alien, and Nick laughed. "You all right, bro?"

Ryan nodded, yawning. "What the fuck?"

Nick shrugged. "Was in Toledo. Had to choose between flying home at 3am or catching a ride here…chose here."

"Good choice."

"Yeah. It seemed like the right one." Nick unloaded his bag in the entryway and pulled off his shoes. He may technically be a guest in the house now, but his mom would still chew him out if he wore them on her carpets. He shuffled over and flopped down next to Ryan. "What are you watching?"

"Um…I was watching an Amy rerun…I have no clue now."

Nick grabbed the remote and started flipping channels. "Well, now we're watching the news."

"Oh God…"

Nick laughed. "I promise not to talk back to the anchors."

"You will anyway. You have a problem."

"Whatever. How are you?"

Ryan shrugged. "Been better. Been worse. Working on stuff."

"Good. Keep busy."

"That's the plan."

Nick nodded. They relaxed for a while, and the more comfortable he got, the more he realized he had a headache. Of course he would. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is getting old."

"Head?"

"Yeah. I think I'm going insane."

"You aren't; you already were."

Nick rolled his eyes at Ryan's smirk. "Haha. You are such a funny grown up, little bro. Can't handle myself."

"Haha, I actually _am_ a funny grown up, _big _bro."

Nick feigned shock. "Are you implying I'm not funny?"

"Something like that."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you, too. Want a beer?"

"Do I want to _breathe_?"

Ryan muttered something about Nick being a dick under his breath, but got up and padded off to the kitchen. Nick gave his phone a quick check.

_Punk  
_Let you have til the taping was over  
_Punk (2)  
_So talk

Nick turned his phone off.

Ryan came back and handed him his drink. "Thanks man."

"No problemo." He plopped down next to Nick, jostling him a bit, and threw his legs on top of Nick. "All right, tell me all about how you've been."

"I've been fine."

"Really, because…I feel like you haven't? Also, April texted me that you've been freaking out…."

"Ugh. April." Nick laid his head back on the couch and tried not to groan.

"Ooh! Start there. I want the gossip."

Nick couldn't suppress the groan anymore. "Messed up. Big time."

"So. Not juicy gossip? Did you tell her she's weird or something?"

"No. That might have gone better..."

"Did you make some big Jerry Maguire speech declaring your love? Because that should have worked…"

"Nope. Never got that far." Nick took a big swig of his beer.

"So you do love her?"

Nick shrugged. "Maybe? I don't know…she's great."

"She is."

"Something about having sex with a girl after you've been crying for an hour makes them want to go back to being just friends though…"

Ryan pulled a face that would have had Nick crying with laughter in any other situation. "You _cried_?"

"Not _during_ the sex. Just for a long period of time before…which she bore witness to…"

"I'm surprised you got it in at all."

"Shut up."

"That's right though. Girls love the crying." Ryan smirked. "Super player status, over here."

"I didn't just cry to get her to fuck me."

"Again, surprised you managed-" Ryan stopped short when Nick glared at him. "Sorry."

"Can we take this seriously for a second? I've been having a pretty shitty time."

"Wahhh, I'm Dolph Ziggler! Everyone loves me! I've got a peach tank top and a can cozy in my merch!" Ryan taunted.

Nick frowned. "Please, Ry?"

Ryan sighed. "Sorry. Just thought I might get a laugh out of you…."

"Yeah. I just have a lot going on. Give me some advice and then you can make fun of me all you want."

"Fair enough." Ryan took a sip from his beer. "So why were you crying?"

Nick groaned. "This is the longest story…"

"Well, if you want to whine and then get advice, I need to know what happened. Not sure if you're aware, but advice is dependent on the situation and specifics."

"Okay. Fine. Payback was just a very upsetting night for me."

"…Were you seriously upset over losing-"

"No! God, I'm not that shallow….Okay. Maybe I _was_ a little upset about it."

Ryan snorted, laying a hand over his heart. "My brother. My _hero_."

"_Anyway_," Nick shot, taking another pull from his bottle, "It was upsetting for me."

"Why?"

"For many reasons."

The blank look Ryan gave him made Nick regret that non-answer. Nick sighed. "I don't know how to get any of this out. Without sounding like-"

"An asshole?"

"Yes."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Okay. I see that I'm going to have to hold your hand through this." Ryan took a big gulp of his beer, and Nick tried not to be offended that his brother was treating him like a moron. "Let's start with this: You were upset about the pay-per-view. You were upset because you lost. But you aren't a cry baby? Even though you did cry. So why were upset past that?"

Nick shrugged. " You…Life….Punk."

"You were upset with me?"

"_About _you."

Ryan raised an eyebrow at him. "That's…_okay_. Why were you upset _about_ me?"

Nick stared at him. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"Well, I'm not chronically ill and I haven't been kidnapped by the Russian mafia…"

The horror…."Neither of those things would be funny."

"No. They would be serious. This? Me?" he motioned to himself, "I'm fine. So I don't see why you're upset."

Nick rolled his eyes. "Forgive me for having a sense of loyalty."

"Loyalty, schmoyalty. This is professional wrestling. If I was on the title scene, I wouldn't have cried over you, just to be honest…."

"Yeah, but it wouldn't have been your fault."

Ryan narrowed his gaze at Nick, confusion written over his face. "…This was _your_ fault?"

"Yeah." It sucked that it was, but that was the truth in Nick's eyes.

Ryan tensed up next to him, and Nick knew it. He knew he was in for it now when his brother finally realized what a scumbag he was. "Care to elaborate? Because I'm about 2 seconds from kicking your ass if you sabotaged me…"

"…I tweeted a bunch of stuff…and I ignored some phone calls…"

There was a tense moment before Ryan laughed, totally deflating. "Yeah, something tells me this wasn't your fault. Something tells me these peoples' mothers just dropped them a few too many times."

"Did you just imply WWE execs have brain damage?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did that cross the line?"

"Yes!"

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Do you have some newfound sense of loyalty or…?"

"Because I think…" Nick lowered his voice. This was hard to admit. "I think I have brain damage."

Ryan snorted. "Yeah, no. You don't. None that's new anyway."

Nick rolled his eyes, rubbing at his pounding temples. "Oh, haha. You're hilarious. It's a wonder you don't have your own late night talk show yet."

"Go fuck yourself."

"I'm serious, though. Shit has been wrong with me ever since I got hurt…"

Ryan shook his head and watched the television for a while before draining his bottle and speaking up again. "So you were upset because you felt guilt? Very misplaced guilt?"

"Yes. And a few other things…"

"Oh, enlighten me on these 'things'!"

"I don't know! I guess I just felt like you were the precursor to my firing? I don't know…. What happened made me like…aware of my own mortality?"

"Mortality?"

"Yes? It was a metaphor for my career but…"

Ryan held up his hand. "Stop. Let me get this straight. My release couldn't just be it's own thing, right? It has to play pre-show to yours?"

Nick was taken aback. "Ry, that's not what I meant..." It wasn't. Ryan wasn't some opening act. He was his _brother_.

But his brother shook his head. "I know that's not what you meant. But you have to realize you have _serious_ oldest child selfishness and martyring issues. Like to the extreme, dude."

"Hey!"

Ryan held up a single finger for silence. "It's true. My firing had to do with me. With you?" he shrugged. "Maybe a little. Because I wasn't going to end up being your nearly-a-twin younger brother? Though if that's what they'd asked me to do, I would have done it. Gladly. But they didn't. They didn't do anything with me or have any faith in me.

"So when it came down to it, they got rid of me. That's that. You really think your dumbass Raw live tweets had anything to do with it? Because they didn't…They'd been treating me like shit down there long before you asked your followers to tell Vince your account was hacked."

Nick felt like an asshole. "That's what Punk said…"

"Well then Punk is a smart guy."

"He is…"

"Then why were you upset over him? Because he was smart like me?"

Nick laughed and shook his head. "Oh man," he groaned. "Well. Want to hear a sort of…funny and embarrassing story?"

"…I'm really not sure. Is it gay?"

Nick smacked him across the chest. "No."

"Then tell me."

"Well…after you called me and told me you had been future endeavored… I got really upset."

"…I'm sensing a pattern."

"Shut up." Ryan gestured for Nick to carry on. "I was thinking about you, and how I thought it was my fault, and then my job, and then my head…and _Alzheimer's_," Ryan gave him a weird look, "and I…kind of had a panic attack about it?"

Ryan's eyes widened. "Dude…"

"It sucked. Really bad. I thought I was having a heart attack or a stroke or that I was dying. And then Punk walked in on it…pretty fucking embarrassing…"

"It's not embarrassing-"

"No. It was." Nick sighed. "But now he like…_knows_ something was wrong…and I only told him a little. I know he knows it's more. He keeps asking."

Nick fingered his powered down phone in his pocket. "And I guess I was a little mad at him because he sort of egged me on with those tweets. And, I know you said they weren't the problem, but I still feel like they were. So I was angry with him. And then I was extra angry with him because he was in a great mood, which makes me sound like an asshole." It did. It really did. It hurt to think about. "And he didn't get it – which I mean, I don't blame him because I didn't explain why I was upset – and he kept trying to get me to go out to eat with him and _fucking Cena_-"

Ryan threw his hands up. "Wait. No. John Cena is part of this story too?"

"Begrudgingly so…"

Ryan stood up, grabbing his empty. "Fuck me. I need another beer. I need to prepare myself for you being 35% less rational now that Cena is involved."

"Hey!"

"It's true. Don't deny it. You have a compulsion."

"I do not!"

"You do!" Ryan called from the kitchen.

Nick groaned. He did not have a compulsion. And what was this about his rationale decreasing at the idea of Cena? The guy was an asshole – his hatred and annoyance were completely founded.

Ryan returned, already nursing his new drink. "Okay. Great. So launch into this diatribe…"

"It's not a diatribe."

"Oh, I bet it is."

Nick glared. "He all but accused me of wanting to get Punk hooked on black tar heroin!"

Ryan stared at him. "So…he…didn't _actually_ accuse you of wanting to do that? Because no one would accuse anyone of that…except maybe _heroin dealers_…."

Nick frowned. "Well…it was implied."

"I'm…I can't even fathom a conversation where that _could _be implied."

"He told me to keep him on the 'straight and narrow'."

"…And you got 'forced black tar heroin addiction' from that?"

"Shut up, Ryan."

"You're fucking delusional."

"Whatever. Other than that, he was just a grade A dick the time I talked to him."

"So you hate him because he spoke to you – once – and because he – _maybe_ – implied that you might get Punk into trouble?"

"It was twice! When you say it that way-"

"Yeah. You're a tool."

"I'm not."

Ryan pulled his legs up and sat Indian style. Nick nearly flinched – when Ryan got comfortable like this, he was in for the long haul. "Can I paint a picture for you?"

Nick nodded slowly. "You're going to anyway…"

"So. Okay. I got fired. And you immediately worried about your job. Also…brain damage? I'm not even sure. Then, you were mad, maybe jealous, of Punk for being _happy_ and having a good match. Can you think about that one?" Ryan took a sip of his drink. "And now, you hate Cena _more_ because he told you to keep your mutual friend out of trouble."

Nick stared.

"That's completely fuck up, dude."

"How?"

"Are you serious?"

"I'm having a rough time!"

"Cut the bullshit. You're making excuses."

"I am not."

Ryan stared at him. "This is how I see it, and don't interrupt." Nick nodded. "You got hurt. You got stressed. You let it get to you because you let _everything_ get to you because you, for some reason, feel the need to put the weight of the world on your shoulders. Punk came, and you made a new friend. But he's already got Cena, who apparently asked you to not take Punk out and force a peyote experience on him. So boo hoo, fuck Cena. Then I got fired, and in your infinite big brother wisdom, you took all the blame upon yourself. Mental breakdown. You lose your title. Mental breakdown. Punk is happy and you aren't. Mental breakdown. Fuck Cena. Am I right?"

Nick ground his teeth. "In the meanest way possible, I guess so."

Ryan nodded. "Hey. Tough love, dude. Break you down to build you back up."

"Whatever."

Ryan moved sideways to better face him. "You need to calm down. Let some of this shit out. Telling me about it was a good first step, okay?"

Nick nodded.

"Now, Punk doesn't know you were upset he was happy…and also about him getting you to tweet stuff?"

"I guess. Yeah. It's nothing I ever said…."

"Tell him. He might tell you to go fuck yourself, but if he's been putting up with you acting like this…he might just like you enough to stick around when he realizes you're a drama queen."

"Okay…"

"Your head is fine. You would have failed the ImPACT tests if it weren't. If it's really bothering you, go get a second opinion. Once that comes back fine, find a shrink."

"I don't need a shrink."

"Then keep a fucking journal," Ryan snapped. "Just stop letting this stuff build up until you have to steal away to Cleveland in the middle of the night."

"…How did you know I stole away?"

"Did you miss the part where April texted me?"

"I hate her."

"You don't. And, about that: figure out what's going on."

"I know what's going on."

"You don't. You don't know if you love her. You're too damn old to run around having sex and ruining your friendships because you're confused and crying."

"That's completely inaccurate…."

"Shut up. This is my advice time." Ryan looked thoughtful for a bit. "And you're grossly jealous of Cena."

"Am n-"

"Yes. You are. You make fun of the way the man _walks_, Nick. You hated him before whatever contrived bullshit he committed when you befriended Punk happened. I don't know if it's Nikki-"

"It's _not _Nikki."

"-or career trajectory. But let it go. You're a lot cooler than him anyway. And if I know you, you'll say the wrong thing, and we'll both be living at home again. And dude, I don't know about you, but I like not sharing a bathroom."

Nick laughed. "Of course. It's all about your precious shower time."

Ryan shrugged. "What can I say? I like a forty-five minute steam while I listen to my Ke$ha albums."

"A man of such luxurious tastes."

"That I am." Ryan relaxed back into the couch. When he spoke again, it was much softer. "And, Nick?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For worrying about me. Even if it drove you nuts."

"Of course I worried. You're my best friend."

Nick saw Ryan smile out of the corner of his eye. "I'm sorry you had to freak out over it."

"It wasn't just you…it was a lot of stuff."

"Well…I appreciate it anyway."

"Anytime."

They watched CNN a while longer before Ryan got up. "I'll see you in the morning, bro."

Nick nodded. "Night."

Ryan studied him for a second before hugging him. "I love you. Even if you're a moron who needs their problems spelled out for them."

Nick squeezed him tight. "It was all a little overwhelming."

"You'll be fine." Ryan pulled away, ruffled his hair ("Ow! Why did you smack my hand?" "Because you'll make it frizzy!"), and headed up to bed.

Nick sat in silence a full twenty minutes before pulling out his phone and turning it back on.

_Punk  
_I saw the read receipt.  
_Punk (2)  
_You're a douchebag  
_Punk (3)  
_Fine, fuck you too

And then a while after that…

_Punk  
_April says you went to Cleveland.  
_Punk (2)  
_Is everything all right?

Nick quickly tapped the reply field: _I'm sorry. I'm fine. I'm a dick. I'll explain when I see you. I promise._

* * *

AN: I love this chapter. I also love the next one. And the one after. Just yeah.


	9. Nine

Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

AN: You guys are the greatest. Especially for putting up with me and having to wait two weeks – again. This chapter was half done ever since I posted the previous chapter, but real life (and discussing MMA at length with Annalore) kind of got in the way of finishing it. But here you go!

Chapter Warnings: Confessions. Stanley Cup wins. Stanley Cup payout. Stanley Cup celebrations. Body frosting. Chicken and Waffles. Trying to end the awkwardness. More awkwardness? Punk deserves this.

* * *

Punk waited for Nick to meet him in the hotel lobby.

Even with Punk busy following the Blackhawks, they had managed to text each other a bit the previous week – mostly about stupid, shallow shit. But Nick seemed in good spirits, so Punk had accepted the lack of proactive discussion. For now.

He'd nearly decided to give up on Nick on Tuesday night. He really had. He liked the guy, and he did care about him – it was impossible not to, the man tapped right into Punk's desire to take a bullet for any of his friends. Punk could take Nick's non-answers about what was wrong. He could take his obvious swerves away from discussing actual problems.

But being ignored was not something Punk would put up with.

So he'd told Nick to go fuck himself. And he'd tried to forget about it for a while. He'd laid in bed not thinking about it. And then trying not to think about it. And then thinking about it and getting angry. He couldn't help it; it was weighing him down. He was so agitated with the entire situation. If Nick didn't tell him what was up soon, he would blow a gasket. He could feel it.

So he'd caved and texted April, trying to act all nonchalant about his annoyance (and hurt – there was definitely some hurt there at being ignored).

His annoyance quickly turned to worry when she informed him he had gone off to Cleveland with Miz. He'd thought the worst – that something was wrong, with Nick, with his family. He didn't know what to think; maybe Nick was the kind of person to just randomly pick up and go see his family – they were close after all. Far closer than Punk and most of his family, and even closer than a lot of people Punk knew who had great families. (And as far as Punk could tell, Nick had one. His reaction to Briley's firing was proof enough.)

His worry broke his resolve, causing him to text Nick yet again to make sure that he was okay, that nothing had gone wrong, that his family was okay. The read receipt had been blank, not even 'delivered', for so long that Punk had to stash his phone and get out of bed long enough to go get water and stand on his balcony because he thought he might chuck the phone at the wall.

When he got back, Nick's text had confused him: _I'm sorry. I'm fine. I'm a dick. I'll explain when I see you. I promise._

Promise. Punk wasn't sure how he felt about the concept. But Nick sure seemed to like making them. Whether or not he was going to keep it…well, Punk would see about that. Since that text though, Nick seemed like he might actually tell Punk when they were in person again. Like he might actually open up. That was all Punk wanted out of him – the truth. Reassurance that not everything was wrong.

Because sometimes, Punk needed reassurance too.

Punk caught sight of Nick as he got off the elevator and waved him over.

"Hey," Punk got up as Nick came over, "how are you?"

Nick shrugged. "Pretty good. Hungry?"

"Starved."

"You didn't have to wait on me. I could have met you there."

"Well, I had to make sure you were actually going to show." Punk smirked at the mortified look on Nick's face. "I'm kidding. Unless you were actually going to try and bail on me…?

"No!"

"Good."

* * *

"So, what the fuck is up with you?"

Punk refused beat around the bush. Beating around the bush was for people who were afraid to hear the truth. Punk wasn't afraid to hear the truth because he was sure the truth wasn't that big of a deal.

He watched Nick deflate, sit back, and gaze out the window. He watched the way Nick's jaw tensed and relaxed several times over. Nick mindlessly played with the napkin in his hand, crushing it in his fist before smoothing it out and lightly fingering the edges.

When he looked back at Punk, he seemed startled. Like he'd forgot Punk was there.

"I didn't even realize I was being an asshole." It tumbled out. Punk hadn't expected him to start so suddenly. "I've been acting like I have some big secret problem. So here's the truth: I don't," he paused, looking down for a second before meeting Punk's eye. It made Punk shift in his seat.

"I've been really bothered by how happy you are." He laughed, the sound bitter and raw. "That sounds like the douchiest thing. But in Chicago…I was in such a shitty place and a shitty mood. And you weren't. You were having the exact _opposite_ experience. And I didn't want to upset you or bring you down, because you deserve to be happy. But not complaining just…it built up for me, and I got angry with you. I didn't want to celebrate because it felt like rubbing salt in the wound, ya know?"

Punk assumed this was rhetorical until he realized that Nick was staring intently, waiting for his reply, waiting for Punk's confirmation that feeling the way he had was okay. "I guess I get that…"

"I was happy for you though – don't think I wasn't. You deserve to be happy for a million reasons. I just really wanted someone to be miserable with….and I kind of wanted it to be you. I guess I just got used to it for so long, and I assumed when you got back…"

"_That _I get." Punk did. Punk understood what it was like to have an experience you wanted to share with your friends, but no friends to share it with. He also understood what it was like to have an experience you could only share with one person and want – desperately – to share it with them. If he hadn't had John the first time he won the title, he never would have coped.

"I think you get a lot."

_I think you get me_. Punk heard it there, just under the surface. He did get Nick. He got the snark and the anger, and using both as defense mechanisms for how insecure he was with where he was. Nick was him five, six years ago. Fuck, Nick was the way he _still _was some days. He totally got it; it all made sense to him.

"I do. You could have told me though. I would have put you in your fucking place and made you come eat eggs with us."

Nick laughed. "I would have probably burst into tears, so it's a good thing you didn't." He shifted awkwardly. "That night was rough…I put April through the ringer."

"Oh?"

Nick nodded. "I feel like I do that to her a lot."

Before Punk could stop himself, the question came spilling out: "Are you guys together?"

Nick stared wide-eyed at him, and Punk sort of wished he could reach out and pull all the words back in. Because it was intrusive. It was weird to ask. At least it felt that way.

Nick shook his head. "No…I don't know. We were? Not seriously…just um," he grabbed his glass and took several large gulps of water, nearly draining it. "Only last week," he rushed out, like he'd hoped to hide it somewhere between pulling the glass from his lips and setting it back on the table.

Punk knew what Nick meant. "You shouldn't fuck around like that."

"I'm not. We're not. It was just…the one time. By accident?" Nick laughed. "That makes it sound like I fell on her or something…"

"She doesn't deserve to get jerked around while you figure out what you want."

Nick cocked his head, brow furrowed. "You think I would do that?"

Punk shrugged. "Anything is possible."

"Well, first: I wouldn't." Nick grabbed his water and took a sip, and Punk felt a little bad. "And she pretty much told me it was a mistake – even though she _said_ it wasn't. And she wants to go back to the way we were before. And we have. So…"

"Oh."

"Yeah. Kind of sucked. I thought maybe that was…," Nick seemed to close up. "I thought maybe we were together? Guess not…"

"That sucks."

"That's life." His dismissal sounded hollow to Punk's ears.

They were silent a while.

"It feels weird now," Nick admitted. "To have thought her and I were finally…and then to have her tell me we weren't. To have to pretend we didn't do anything. It feels stupid. Immature."

"That's why you don't do it in the first place." It was just one of the added bonuses on Punk's lifestyle – avoiding all the crazy relationship dynamics that came out of stupid, heat of the moment decisions.

Nick frowned. "I can't imagine that."

"Can't imagine what?"

"Thinking anything like that through if I just want to do it? If I want to do it, I might as well do it."

"That's an impulse control problem."

"It's not a problem though."

"It can be. You're confused now. I'm sure April is too."

"But that's half the fun."

Punk wasn't sure he knew what to think about that. "I'm not sure that I feel the same way…"

Nick smiled and shrugged. "It makes life interesting."

"I'm not sure you like uncertainty as much as you think you do…"

"When there aren't a million other uncertain things going on, _that_ kind of uncertainty is fine by me. It makes the end result that much more rewarding."

Punk nodded. He didn't get it. But whatever.

Punk picked at his salad for a while, weighing his options. He wanted to bring John up. He wanted to get to the bottom of this. But he also didn't want to kill the mood…or whatever it was. This lunch didn't have a "mood". He was losing it. "So I need to ask you about something else."

Nick finished chewing a bite of his sandwich. "Okay?"

"Do you hate John?"

Nick snorted, but immediately had the decency to look apologetic when Punk glared at him. "Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"I mean…I don't _hate_ John. I barely know him."

"See, you could have fixed that problem if you had come out with us!"

"You'll never stop complaining about that, will you?"

"Nope. Never."

"Okay, look. I'm sure he's nice. All I ever hear about is how nice he is. And he's been perfectly professional when I've worked with him. I just don't think we're that similar."

"I think you're shockingly similar."

"I think I'm offended."

"Nick…"

He held his hand up, and Punk stopped with an irritated sigh. "Hear me out. I've never had anything but superficial interactions with him. But my observations of shit that's gone on between him and other people? They didn't create the most positive impression of him for me."

"Then you should let him prove you wrong."

Nick rolled his eyes. "I think he hates me too. Have you grilled _him_ about that?" Punk was quiet. Nick laughed. "That's rich."

"He doesn't hate you! He dislikes you…mostly because he thinks you hate _him_. So if you two would stop acting like you're thirteen-year-old girls…"

"We aren't. We're acting like people who are pretty sure they aren't going to like each other, and are smart and mature enough to avoid causing a problem."

Punk smirked. "Did you just call John 'smart and mature'?"

Nick shook his head. "Not on purpose."

"But you did."

"Fuck you."

"I just have one more question."

"Ugh."

"Did you squawk at John?"

Nick furrowed his brow in confusion. "No…?" Then his eyes widened. "I mean…yesssss…."

Punk laughed. "Awe man, I thought he was kidding the whole time!"

"It was an accident," Nick groaned. "It was weird and I laughed and the laugh came out wrong…I don't know! I sounded like the Fruit Loops bird."

"He immediately called me and asked what was wrong with you."

Nick stared him down. "Oh wow. Shit talker. How nice."

"He wasn't shit talking…he thought there was something wrong with you."

"Wow. That's even nicer. 'Hey Punk! Is your friend Nick mentally impaired?'" Nick mocked. "_Seriously _talking him up right now, Punk. I can't handle it. Shockingly positive stuff."

"Oh, shut up. He thought you were being mean – I meant mean. Not 'wrong with you'."

"Admit it: you meant wrong with me."

Punk threw down enough cash to cover the bill and a generous tip for their waitress who'd managed to be polite without being saccharine and apparently knew enough about body language to not interrupt this conversation. He needed to change this topic. Now. "Come on. I have to go call Kane and give him his pep talk. The man is lost without me. I'll never know how he made it to the NHL."

"He was number one overall the year he was drafted. Something tells me he did fine without you."

"Shut up, Nick."

Nick smiled. "You excited for tonight?"

"I have the _best _feeling about tonight."

* * *

Nick made his way outside after Raw.

Punk had somehow made him cave, and now he was going out for a post-Raw meal with his friend and Cena. He was pretty sure he'd rather lay face down on the grill at the restaurant than go through with this. But he would. For Punk's (misguided) sake.

And on top of getting his way, Punk's feeling had been right: the Blackhawks had won the Stanley Cup. Nick was prepared for an exceptionally smug Punk. What he encountered outside was a different creature all together.

"Nick!"

Nick froze. Punk, still in full ring gear and his hoodie, was doing cartwheels in front of his bus. "Are…are you drunk?" He was_ obviously_ kidding….but only a little.

Punk stopped, dropping to sit Indian style, leaning back on his hands. He was breathing hard, smiling, _beaming_ really. "Nope! High on life!"

"I believe you. Only because it's you. Anyone else, I would be taking to have their stomach preemptively pumped."

Punk laughed. "You need to celebrate with me!"

"I am! I'm buying you chicken and waffles!"

Punk looked at him like he was dumb. "No…well, yes. Just waffles. But you have to cartwheel. I know you can. And if you half ass it, you're going to have to do headstands against my bus."

Nick groaned. "Do I have to?"

"Yes. Cartwheel. Now."

Nick set his bag down. "You're a dick."

"I know." Nick did one, making sure he didn't half ass it. He knew Punk seriously might make him headstand against the grill of his bus. "Do some more!" Punk insisted.

"Why? So you can post this on Tout?"

"Fuck that. I don't use my Tout. I'm not contractually obligated anymore."

"You suck, Punk." He did a few more, even holding a handstand at the end.

Punk applauded. "Good. Don't you feel…ten times more jolly now?"

He hated to admit it, but they had made him feel a little…_jollier_. "No. Not really…." Nick didn't know who this man before him was. "Are you okay? I feel like this win may have driven you over the edge…"

"I'm perfect!"

"Okay. Calm down there."

"Why be calm when the Stanley Cup is _ours_?" Nick could only describe the sound that came out of Punk as a howl.

"Punk, you're like…manic right now."

"I know!" Punk jumped up to emphasize his point and Nick had to bite back the grin threatening to split across his face. This Punk was glorious.

"You guys just won like…three years ago. If this is you after three years, I don't know what you're going to do when the Cubs finally win the Series…"

"2015, Nick. Just two years from now. And you know how long that draught will have been? 107 years. People have lived entire lives and died and been buried for…30 years without my Cubbies winning."

Nick mockingly applauded. "All of this. Based on Back to the Future."

"Self-fulfilling prophecy, bud."

"Um…I feel like that doesn't mean what you think it means..."

Punk rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Cubs in 2015."

"I don't doubt you. I will be jumping right on the bandwagon if it looks that way."

"_When _they win, I'm going to buy the Cubs. And rename them the McFlys. Just for one season."

"I don't know that you have the money for that."

"No, but I have the drive."

"Plus you're intimidating."

"Exactly!"

Nick's phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out to check it. April had texted him a link. "…I thought you said you didn't use Tout anymore?" He held his phone up, glaring at Punk.

Punk smirked. "I haven't. Not in 10 months."

"Of course. You break your silence by embarrassing me."

"I thought you liked showing off?"

"It's not showing off if you don't know you're doing it…," Nick mumbled.

Punk laughed. "Whatever. Think of all the likes and shares that's going to get. That's the showing off part."

"Shut up. You don't know anything about showing off."

A large hand suddenly clapped against Nick's back, startling him. "What did I miss?"

John Cena was at his side, smiling at Punk. And touching Nick like he knew him. He was all hot and sweaty from his dark match, just hovering over Nick's shoulder. It was gross. Nick barely managed to tense up and side step away without saying something to the champion.

Punk smirked. "Cartwheels. I won't make you do one because I don't feel like scooping your clumsy brains off the pavement with a chunk of your skull like it's a salsa and chips."

"I think I could manage a cartwheel." John wasn't so sure about that right now. But he wasn't going to let Punk know that.

"Sure, John."

John had been prepping for his dark match when the game was over, so he'd missed it, but his phone hadn't. He'd been happy for Punk, if a little sour over having lost their bet. But he was excited at the prospect of the friendly ribbing Punk would give him for it. He wondered if that was a little weird.

He wasn't sure he cared.

He fished the dollar he'd buried in his change pocket before his match out and handed the wadded little bundle over to Punk. "Yours. Fair and square."

Punk threw his hands up in repulsion. "Oh no. You aren't giving me _that_. Go unfold it and flatten it out on something."

"Were you planning on running to a vending machine or…?"

"Just do it."

John rolled his eyes, but did as Punk asked and rubbed the bill against a nearby bus.

Nick stood there, frozen with awkwardness. He didn't want to be that guy, standing there saying nothing, obviously uncomfortable with the situation. But he was. And he thought he might be sick when he realized it was all about him – he didn't want to say the wrong thing and fuck this up. Especially when Punk was going around smiling like _that_.

Punk fished his phone back out and thrust it at a confused Nick. Punk smirked. "Oh, I'm not just taking that dollar from John. I need photographic evidence of his loss to show the whole world."

"Oh, fuck you!" John shot, coming back over with a much flatter – if very wrinkled – buck. "You're such a dick."

Nick laughed and thumbed the camera open on Punk's phone. "All right. Say cheese."

"You mean money."

"_No_, I meant _cheese_. But if you want to say money, Punk, that's your prerogative!" John laughed and Nick shot him a tight, quick smile. He held the camera up, and John and Punk held the dollar between them. "Oh, come on. You two can do better than that!"

Punk smiled and John stared at Nick for a minute, uncertain what to do. Nick waved his hand at him, trying to get a reaction out of John, who simply shrugged as Nick snapped the picture. When Nick got a good look at the shot he'd just taken, he laughed. "Oh man."

"Let me see!"

Nick handed Punk back his phone. Punk's eyes widened and he laughed, shoving the phone at John. "Please look at yourself."

John took the phone and groaned. "Oh god…"

Punk laughed. "You look terrible!"

"I look like a doofus."

Without thinking, Nick patted him on the shoulder. "It's all right. The world already knows you're a goof."

All three of them froze, Nick's hand lying still against John's shoulder. It was a tense moment, and Punk was sure that something would go wrong, that one of them was about to do or say something that would ruin their tentative truce and send both of them plummeting to the blacktop. He was convinced he really _was _going to have to scoop someone's innards off the ground. He was sure of it.

And then John laughed and Nick smiled and dropped his hand and Punk breathed the largest sigh of relief he ever had. _Thank Stan Lee._

"All right, so what are we getting this winner over here?"

Nick shrugged. "I suggested chicken and waffles, and he just made me do cartwheels so…"

"Well, I'm all about that. Punk won't order chicken, so he'll eat all of mine. But I guess we can go anyway."

Punk shoved John. "Oh, screw you. I will not."

"You're a pretty shitty vegan."

"I've been managing pretty well, lately. Without Nick shoving pizza down my throat."

"Oh, I shoved it down your throat?"

"Well, you did. Psychologically. Once I saw it, it was game over…"

Nick laughed. "Whatever. You were the one on a crusade through an airport to buy one for us."

"For you! It was all for you and your stupid concussion!"

"Hey, don't bring up that concussion! It was a pretty wile bastard, fucking me over when it did."

John shook his head. "I see why you're friends now. Weirdoes…"

Punk and Nick both glared at him, Punk a little more jokingly than Nick. "Why don't you go in and maybe wash some of that sweat off, John boy? You smell terrible."

"I'm wounded, Punk. I really am." John headed back inside anyway.

Punk smirked at Nick, but was taken aback when Nick rolled his eyes. "What?"

"You think _you_ smell like sunshine?"

"Fuck off."

"Yeah, I'll do that in your bus while I wait."

Punk gave him the finger and headed back inside.

* * *

John was in the middle of pulling a fresh shirt on when two arms wrapped around him from behind and a pair of lips grazed his ear. "Hey Champ."

He smiled and turned around, hugging Nikki to him. "Hey there, gorgeous." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

She beamed up at him and pecked him on the lips. "So," she started, face almost immediately falling, "this probably goes without saying, but are you going out tonight?"

John smiled and tried his hardest not to look too excited. She was in a good mood – he wasn't about to fuck with that and get accused of preferring late night breakfast food with Punk to sex with her. Again. For the second time that day. "Yes. With Punk and Ziggler."

Nikki's brow furrowed. "You're going out with Nick?"

"Yeah. And, as always, invitation is open to you…"

Nikki's face went blank. "Yeah. I really want to go out with Punk _and_ my ex."

"Ah. Right."

"Exactly, babe." Nikki reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him very deeply, very suddenly. John grabbed her by the hips, pulling her flush against him, just as she pulled away. He nearly whined. "Well, if you get bored of them…I'll be waiting. In bed."

"Okay."

"Without panties," she told him, running her fingertips down his chest.

"Okay…"

"Or any clothes at all." She pressed her chest to his.

"Nik…"

"And I'll probably have some of that Jessica Simpson body frosting you like," she purred.

"They can just-"

"Oh no, John! You made a _commitment_! You _have_ to go eat scrapple and grits with them! They'll be so _heartbroken _if you don't." She smacked a loud kiss on his cheek, and then pinched it. "Gosh, you're so darn handsome!" She started toward the door and shot him a wink over her shoulder. "I won't wait up."

John had to picture Mark Henry with a wedgie in order to get himself together enough to leave his dressing room.

* * *

"I feel like I'm cheating on pancakes."

Nick laughed at the guilty look on Punk's face as he sopped up a good portion of the syrup on his place with the bit of waffle on his fork. He was so into the food on his plate that he hadn't made any attempts at stealing Cena's chicken (the Champ seemed rather grateful). But he'd nearly caved at the beginning of the meal and gone for the pancakes. He and Cena had spent over a minute egging him into ordering the waffles while the waitress watched, giggling, until he'd finally given in to them.

(Punk didn't mind. Punk didn't mind their shenanigans one bit. Because John and Nick were having shenanigans. _Shared _shenanigans. They could pour a dispenser of syrup over his head right now, and he wouldn't give a fuck, as long as they did it together.)

"I'm sure they won't mind," Nick assured him.

"I might never be allowed in a pancake house again."

"I really doubt that," John told him, ripping a chicken wing apart. "I think you've kept every pancake house in Chicago in business this year."

"And if they do ban you," Nick added, "you can exclusively go to Waffle House."

Punk pondered this for a second. "Fair point." He nibbled at an especially crispy waffle edge before dramatically dropping his fork. "…Wait, I'd be _banned_ from pancake houses?"

John and Nick shared a smirk. "I mean," John started, "I feel like it's still a possibility. Especially since Ziggler over here tweeted about this excursion…"

"You did?" Nick laughed at Punk's overly shocked face. "Why would you ruin my pancake cred?"

"You Tout'd my cartwheels."

"They were good cartwheels!"

"These are good waffles!"

Punk gave Nick an exaggerated pout, and both his tablemates laughed at him. He thought he might actually explode with happiness. He quietly finished up the last of his waffles, shooting his friends furtive glances while Nick explained some app on his phone to a puzzled looking John, who nodding along feigning comprehension. He didn't want them to catch him looking, observing. It was such a fragile little…_thing_, and he was afraid – so afraid – that if either of them caught him, if he gave them the knowing little 'I told you so!' look he was so desperate to show…it would end as quickly as it began.

That they would just throw down at this table…and ruin his waffles.

But then John was laughing at some joke Nick cracked that Punk didn't hear, and he felt the tiniest glimmer of hope. That this would keep up. That they would become friends.

He realized it was all he really wanted right now.

He finished up his pancakes and downed the last of his Pepsi. "All right, not to interrupt your pow wow over there, but I gotta pee. I'll be back."

Nick lazily waved him off. "You have fun with that."

"You know what they say. Two shakes…"

"Shut the fuck up, John."

John laughed as Punk stomped off. "He can dish it out, but he just can't take it."

"Nah, I think he can. He just likes us to think he can't."

"He really does."

The pair stayed quiet for a long while.

John looked at Nick and their eyes locked for a long, tense moment.

With Punk at the table, with the ice broken earlier, Nick felt fine talking to John. But now that their conversation had been interrupted – and Punk had excused himself – something was…_off_. It was as if Punk had taken their little slice of burgeoning camaraderie away with him.

While the usual malice he felt was numbed for the moment, Nick knew that one wrong move on either of their parts would tear their current détente to shreds. (He could feel it – as much as he wanted to stay civil, there was still something thrumming away under his skin, craving the confrontation.) And he didn't want to make it – he couldn't take that blame.

He wouldn't be able to take Punk's disappointment.

John felt the same. He felt like as friendly as they were being tonight, a part of him was still out for blood. He didn't want it to be. And he really didn't want to say something wrong and have this guy making noises at him again. He didn't want to do anything that might upset him, and in turn, upset Punk. Because he knew how much this meant to Punk. He knew Punk desperately wanted them to get along. He would suck it up for Punk.

Because Punk deserved that much.

Nick looked away first and hoped that there wasn't some cosmic symbolism behind his choice to back down first.

John studied his profile, taking in the tension in his jaw, the hard set of his eyes. He turned away, but felt no sense of victory at making Ziggler look away. Not in this situation.

And when Punk returned, he didn't seem to notice anything suddenly off between the two. And they managed to slip back into casual conversation, even if it was slightly strained.

* * *

AN: Chapter 10 soon? I'll say in the next two weeks just to be safe.

Jessica Simpson body frosting is an actual product. Back when she was MTV famous, she put out a beauty line called Dessert of edible lotions that come in whipped cream-type containers and things like that. It's still available for purchase on Amazon.


End file.
